


Fire and Ice

by wakethedreams



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Choosing Ones Destiny, F/M, M/M, Old Magic, Politics and Scheming, Violence, morally ambiguous harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-02-09 08:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12884460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakethedreams/pseuds/wakethedreams
Summary: One simple act changes the destinies of two wizards forever. The prophecy is subverted when Tom Riddle decides to only murder the Potters, leaving Harry at an orphanage in the countryside. Old Magics, timeless and woven into the fabric of life itself, are at play to bring them back together to a more insidious end than the prophecy originally intended. Harry finds himself stuck within the machinations of one Dark Lord and the witch who raised him, struggling to find himself and choose his own destiny.





	1. Garden

**Author's Note:**

> There are depictions of violence and canon character deaths in the first chapter, heads up. This is my baby, I've been working on Fire and Ice for a long time and have the first ten chapters written. Here it is! Enjoy.

Tom had decided the best course of action was to murder the Potters. He’d done worse for far less and given the utter absurdity of the situation he had found himself in there really was no other option. So that was how he found himself hiding in the shadows of Godric’s Hollow, waiting for the Potter’s to arrive back home from their short trip to the nearby park. He leaned the right side of his body delicately against the wrought iron fence, staring out towards the cobblestone pathway the little family would be taking to get back to their modest cottage. He’d been watching the them for quite some time now. They rarely went out, likely from the healthy dose of fear Dumbledore had bestowed upon them. Knowing the contents of that particular conversation, via Snape, had been amusing. He never could understand how others remained so oblivious to the old man’s flare for the dramatic.

 Some might argue Tom suffered from the same flare, but they were simply being obtuse. It was not a particularly astute, or true, observation.

 Still, despite Dumbledore’s adamant warnings and the installation of the Fidelus charm, the Potter’s could not resist the little outing to the park with their little boy. _Harry_. Tom sighed heavily, never moving from his spot against the fence, resolute in the course he was taking. He just couldn’t have loose ends like this fraying up and causing knots in his plans. The wind whipped his cheeks with a stinging cold. The dried-up leaves still clinging to the now dormant branches above him sounded off in a chorus of a thousand hoarse whispers. He wondered if the same wispy voice had come out of Sybil Trelawney’s throat when she spoke the prophecy to Dumbledore.

 "I mean honestly, during an interview no less.” Tom scoffed, his words puffing out in front of him like angry little clouds of smoke. “Such rubbish.” His eyes narrowed as the faint sounds of laughter came from down the lane, bouncing off the houses and descending high into the dusk air. Tom had found a muggle man who had recently been released from prison a few weeks ago. Meticulously he’d planted compulsions in his mind, with a confiscated wand of course. The delicacy it took to not make the compulsions appear forced had been taxing. There was something less pleasing about a simple Imperio however. Tom watched as the man rounded the corner, shoulders stiff and drawn up. Perfect, right on time. The street was empty barring the two of them and the cold of the approaching winter months.

 Despite the ‘rubbish’ that was the prophecy he was still here, lying in wait for the perfect little golden family soon to return with happy smiles and a sleepy baby nestled safely in their arms. He had eliminated the threat of Trelawney, swiftly and without much notice from the public. Many would not be surprised to read tomorrow morning, cup of tea in hand, that the disgraced ‘Seer’ had disappeared with nary a note left behind. She had been disposed to some more, unsavory, predilections it would read. Fearing exposure and the consequent retribution she had packed her things and shadowed away into the night, never to be seen or heard from again.

 So the feature in the Prophet would read, of course.

 Tom couldn’t let the threat of something so _sensational_ as that supposed prophecy being leaked to the public. No stray threads, no loose ends. The Potters had to be dealt with. Their knowledge of the prophecy would be an unneeded thorn in his side when his machinations were revealed in earnest.  Snape was not an issue, as he was for the time being securely under Tom’s thumb. If that were to change, however, he would do what was necessary. Dumbledore was unfortunately a necessary, albeit quite annoying, piece in his game.

 The Potters were the last remaining issue concerning this prophecy debacle. He watched the muggle man move into the shadows beneath the looming oak on the corner, pulling a knife from the folds of his overcoat. The approaching soft footsteps had alertedd Tom to the pair now coming down the same scenic cobblestone lane. He wasn’t willing to get his hands directly dirty with this mess and anything magical would implicate Tom in Dumbledore’s mind. A simple act of senseless violence would have to do instead. The woman, Lily Potter, rounded the corner first and the muggle was quick to act under Tom’s compulsions. Grabbing Lily by her red hair, he raised the knife to her throat before she had even gathered the breath to scream, and cut a clean line across. James Potter was right on her heels, a content smile still plastered across his face, only to be morphed into horror as he saw his wife’s now crumpled form on the frosty ground. Tom watched carefully as James reached for his wand, but the man was on him in a quick flurry of slices. The muggle easily slid the knife into Jame’s ribs. It only took moments for the auror to be lying beside his wife in a pathetic gasping heap.

 Tom drew the hood of his robes up around his glamoured face tightly. The muggle man’s face was scrunched up in rage, breath labored as he stared at the carnage at his feet. The baby still nestled in Lily’s arms, covered from the attacker in a last attempt to protect her son, began to quietly cry. Never underestimate the element of surprise. Tom could hear the faint whispers of a ‘constant vigilance’ off in his mind.

 “ _Immobulu_ s,” Tom murmured as he crossed the gate of the cemetery and glided towards the tree they were under.

 Leaning down he looked at his handiwork. James Potter was still gasping for breath, vainly attempting to reach for the wand nestled safely in the outer pocket of the jacket he was wearing. Tom tutted at his actions, reaching for the silver blade that had fallen to the ground with gloved hands. The blade gleamed, his reflection shining menacingly back at him as he bent over James insidiously.

 “So sorry for this,” Tom whispered before sliding the knife slowly into the flesh of James’ chest, piercing his heart with cold precision. So much for not getting his hands dirty. The auror laying beneath him attempted to gasp out his protest, perhaps prepared to beg for mercy, but the words died on his lips as the light flickered from James’ eyes forever. The baby in Lily’s arms had stopped crying, his cheeks flushed and wet from tears. Tom met the gaze fixed on his curiously. Enchanting green eyes stared up at him blankly, still to young to understand what had happened. His mother's blood had gushed down onto the top of his head, still gleaming wet and steaming slightly in the cool air. Tom dispelled it with a slight wave of his wand before gathering the bundle up into his arms. There was no quivering lip, no thick streams of tears, no wailing cry piercing the nighttime quiet. If Tom had been anyone else, he might have started slightly at the baby’s calm in the face of such violent deaths.

 "Curious.” He muttered to himself before wrapping his cloak around the babe to conceal him. Tom stepped over the Potter’s bodies with distaste before moving towards the muggle who was still frozen in place from his charm. He rested his wand against the man’s head delicately, removing any memory of himself or the baby. The man passed out from the mental intrusion, falling in a heap on the frosty ground.

 “Good enough.” He muttered yet again. He had been doing a lot of that lately and was beginning to worry over his own well being. He turned swiftly and disapparated with a resounding crack.

~

Harry had grown to like the orphanage in the same way he had grown to like the itchy wool blankets the matron insisted he use. He had been here for eight years now and had watched very few of the other children leave, coming to the conclusion that most just came to stay. Some had grown up here, reached eighteen and left, off to someplace far and unknown to little Harry. He imagined he would follow in their footsteps one day, though where he would go he didn’t know. He would lay awake and think of where he might head off to, but often this thinking left him feeling smaller and more alone than he ever allowed himself to in the light of day.

 In the meantime, he had learned to enjoy the small comforts he could find in the draft stone walls of the orphanage. He received lessons down the road at the small schoolhouse in the village. Harry always enjoyed the walk into town early in the morning, the cool air turning his cheeks pink and tousling his already unruly hair. He would never grow accustomed to the treks through the snow though, despite how it beautifully blankets everything in powdery white. His favorite though would have to be the books he had taken to nestling up with in his room, donated to the orphanage library by the village’s families and the school. Most of them were educational and Harry particularly enjoyed the ones on geography and nature, but there was a good bit of fiction mixed in there as well.

 Harry turned the page of his latest choice, _Moby Dick_ , which he was finding particularly difficult to do. Melville really liked to talk about the whaling industry, which was boring in Harry’s opinion, but he trudged on. Ms. Berry had told him if he could finish _Moby Dick_ she’d let him read some of the more difficult fiction books and Harry had his sights set on _Madame Bovary_ for months. He wasn’t going to let something like whales stand in his way.

 The grass was soft beneath him where he sat shaded by one of the few trees in the yard. He enjoyed the pine tree’s smell and he was lucky that none of the other children went out of their way to bother him, as it was the best spot for a break from the summer heat. Harry caught the small group that had formed around Ms. Berry not too far from where he sat, eagerly listening to yet another telling of the attendant’s favorite story of the ‘Witch in the Woods.’ Harry had never particularly liked the tale and long ago figured out it was just a way for the caretakers to keep the children from wandering into the woods by themselves.

 “The witch opened the door to her mossy cottage invitingly,” Ms. Berry whispered as she met the young gazes staring up at her from their spots in the sun. “And little Gregory went inside, hoping the kind looking witch might help him find his way back home.”

 Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her before returning to the dusty pages of the book in his lap.

~

After supper at six the children were allowed three hours of free time before bed, which was at nine o’ clock sharp. Harry had found an unused broom closet under the stairs a few years ago when he was being chased by Rose, a freckled blonde girl who looked like a human beanstalk. It was cold and smelled a little moldy, but Harry didn't mind. He had quickly made it his own hiding space, since the room he shared didn't offer the quiet he needed sometimes. Harry came to the little room under the stairs to be away from everyone. The caretakers had found him huddled inside the small space a few times, wrapped in a blanket and reading by the light of the single bulb that remained uncovered on the ceiling. They didn't bother him when he was in there, so long as he was in bed before curfew.

 Harry knew the staff found him to be a bit odd. They had noticed long before the other children had caught on. Harry knew they did their best, but that didn't change the fact that they often avoided him if they could. Sometimes ‘accidents’ happened that Harry couldn’t really explain. He was different from the other children, but he couldn't really understand how.

 The first time it had happened was during the summer before Harry’s fifth birthday. He hadn’t really _meant_ to do it, it had just happened. That’s what he told the caretakers, but it didn’t stop them from staring at him with a cold look in their eyes when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. One of the older boys, Brendan, had been bothering Harry while he was reading. He’d been throwing pebbles at Harry from behind one of the trees, hitting him in his arm. He’d been reading a science book Ms. Berry had given him about the solar system and he had just been getting to the bit about black holes when he felt the sting of another pebble. Harry didn’t know how it happened but one moment he was hot with annoyance and the next there was a tree branch on top of Brandon. The older boy was pinned beneath it crying, blood leaking from his head slowly.

 Harry had known it wasn’t his fault, couldn’t be his fault. How could he made a branch break off and fall on someone? Brandon blamed him though and despite the caretakers telling him they believed Harry he knew they didn’t.

 There had been other accidents after the one with Brandon, but none shocking. However, the one that had really shook Harry and had convinced him there was something about him unlike the others had happened last year. Again, it was summer, but it was the hottest one he’d ever been through. Most days were spent indoors, all the windows wide open and fans running on high. It was like the sun was angry and had wanted to punish them.

 They'd been allowed outside after a few days spent inside due to heat wave warnings on the radio in the common room. Though, despite the heat wave being over it was still uncomfortably warm and dry outside. Harry could see shimmering waves coming off the ground and it was difficult to breath at some points. He couldn’t stop thinking about rain pouring down on him in. He’d fixated on it, the sensation, the relief. And just like that lightning had cracked across the sky with rain following seconds later. It had soaked his clothes in seconds, his body filling with an unknown sensation like bubbles popping all over him. But then he’d suddenly passed out. The caretakers had called it heat exhaustion, but Harry wasn’t convinced. He couldn’t explain the sudden happiness that had filled him, like he could fly if he’d simply stood up and jumped.

So, after supper time, if he didn’t have school work to complete, he’d come to the broom closet and try to make it rain again. He hadn’t gotten very far, but he was determined. Harry knew that there was something happening inside of him that he couldn’t understand. He wanted to explore it, understand it, control it. If only to feel that happy, bubbly sensation again.

He pulled the string for the light and settled in. He’d brought a cup from the kitchens, setting it on the floor in front of him like he’d done many nights before. Cross-legged on the floor he took a deep breath inward and tried his best to focus through the sound of feet thudding on the stairs above him. The most difficult thing he’d come to find was clearing his mind like he had when he’d thought of rain. The heat had focused him, it was easy to only think of water when he felt he was on fire. Cold and stuffed in a tiny closet was harder.

Harry tried to imagine the cup filling with water, cracking an eye open to look. Nothing. What was different this time than the last? Last time he practically felt like he was dying, like there wasn’t a single drop of water left in the world that could save him. Focusing and thinking of the cup being full wasn’t enough, he had to really want it. He had to feel it inside of him, like the water was filling him up instead. He huffed, watching dust fill the air before settling.

“Such rubbish.” He muttered, leaning back on his hands. Closing his eyes yet again he tried to imagine something different. Harry thought about not having water for weeks, no months. All the water in the world had dried up, not a single stream or lake left to drink from. Suddenly his mouth felt very dry. What was worse was that he had somehow ended up in the desert, surrounded by sand and heat. He’d been wandering for days, looking for even the smallest trace of water but there was nothing. Just never-ending hills of sand on the horizon. Two black vultures circled above, flapping in front of the sun and casting shadows where Harry lay hopeless. He was sweating now, wondering if he might be the birds next meal. Heart pounding in his chest at the thought of dying alone in the desert, being eaten slowly by birds or maybe even a coyote who knew. If only he could find some water, then he’d be able to find the strength to move. He saw it then, in the blackness of his shut eyes, a clear stream of water pouring into an overflowing cup.

 “Ah!” Harry yelped, scrambling to stand. His pants were wet! For a moment wasn’t sure if he’d wet himself in fear, but then looked down at the floor.

The cup was so full of water some had spilled out, pooling around him.

 ~

Spring was finally moving into Summer and hopefully it would be the kind filled with cool breezes and lots of shady spots to lay under. Harry loved the Spring, and would be sad to see it go. The sparrows were twittering around above him in the trees and a large group of kids had gotten together and started a game of tag. They were running through the grass, their footsteps falling hard, screaming as they were chased around.

Harry didn't have his usual book with him this time, watching the group from beneath his favorite pine tree. His stomach flopped as he tentatively made his way over to the boy who had started the game. Caleb Forester was a rather short boy with chubby freckled cheeks and bright blonde hair. He looked like a squirrel but the kind that never shared his nuts with anyone else.

Harry grasped hold of the courage he had and tapped Caleb on the shoulder softly. The boy whipped around, thinking he’d been tagged only to scrunch his face up when he saw Harry standing there. He didn't stay anything to the green-eyed boy, instead staring at him as Harry shifted back and forth on his feet.

“Mind if I join?” Harry stumbled over the words a bit but attempted to smile invitingly at the other boy to make up for it. Some of the other kids had stopped running and were now watching the two with interest.

“Not likely!” Caleb laughed loudly, his face still scrunched up making his nose look fatter than it really was. “You’d just ruin all our fun, anyway.” Caleb squared his hands on his hips defensively, leaning into Harry’s space as he continued to stare.

“I can’t imagine anyone having very much fun with you, anyway.” Harry shot back, heat washing over his chest. He shouldn’t have said it, but the anger in his chest pushed his reason out the door and into the street.

“What did you say?” Caleb edged closer to Harry, his own face coloring in anger at the insult. Harry took a step back, putting his hands up in front of him.

“Nothing, I didn’t say anything.” Harry muttered. He’d known it would be a stupid idea to ask in the first place, especially after what had happened with Brandon two summers ago. The other children avoided him at all costs, not wanting to find themselves pinned beneath a tree, or worse. Backing off hadn’t been enough for Caleb though, he had heard what Harry had said and wasn’t going to let it slide. He reached forward and shoved Harry’s shoulders with a lot of force for such a small stubby kid.

Harry fell hard on his back, the wind knocking out of him for a moment. He stared up at the perfect blue sky, thick clouds drifting by slowly as the sparrow’s continued their quick songs. Harry felt stupid tears in his eyes and tried to blink them away quickly.

“Get out of here loser, we don’t want you to play with us!” Caleb shouted, catching the attention of Ms. Berry who looked on but didn’t make a move to intervene. It was best to let boys be boys, sometimes.

“Yeah shove off!” A high-pitched voice shouted from somewhere in the group of kids, which had grown since the beginning of the interaction.

Harry scrambled up from the ground, his chest so tight his skin might break open, not bothering to look at any of the kids or Caleb before taking off running. He didn’t think about where he was going, he just ran. The sound of the birds in the pine tree disappeared and the sound of the now resumed tag game became distant noise. Harry threw himself against the high iron fence, wiping at his eyes desperately.

“Stupid, so stupid!” Harry yelled at himself. He shouldn’t have even bothered. Why had he anyway? He knew they were just going to tell him off for it anyway. Still, he had grown tired of the books. And the thought of running free had excited him. The looks of happiness and excitement on the other children’s faces always stirred something longingly inside him.

"Who needs them anyway." Harry comforted himself, no one to hear the embarrassment that made his voice hitch at the end. He walked along the fence, dragging his hand along the warm metal as he went. He had run around to the back of the building where the tool shed was, somewhere that was off-limits without adult supervision. Harry knew he wasn’t supposed to be back here, but he knew that Ms. Berry had probably thought he’d gone to the broom closet to be alone and wouldn’t bother looking for him for a while. He stopped to stare out into the dark expanse of the woods that were beyond the field surrounding the orphanage.

He watched as the trees swayed in the breeze, wondering not for the first time what laid beyond them. The thought of leaving the orphanage scared him but sometimes he couldn’t help but wish he could just escape into the protection of the dark forest. He scanned the field before startling when he saw a man standing far off to his left.

"Not again," He whispered to the blades of grass who were his only company. “Just leave me alone already!” Harry shouted, grabbing hold of the rusted bars in front of him. The man had a dark cloak drawn up around him despite standing directly in the sun. He stood there, not moving, staring at Harry and nowhere else.

Once or twice a year Harry would see the man, always in the same dark clothes, face hidden. He’d appear just outside of the orphanage, always far enough away that Harry couldn’t make out anything but the color of his clothes and that he was a man. No one else seemed to notice him and Harry was to afraid to draw attention to himself by mentioning it Ms. Berry. She’d think he was crazy.

They both watched each other, waiting for one to make the first move. Harry couldn’t bring himself to look away.

"Who are you?” He wondered aloud. It was as if his question had prompted the man. He stared for a few moments before turning and walking off towards the forest. Harry wished for a moment that he could somehow follow him. The exit of the stranger brought him back to reality though. The sun was beginning to sink in the sky and the sounds of children playing had gone silent. It was close to supper time and the caretakers would begin looking for him soon.

Harry knew there was a back door near the tool shed and began to make his way there quickly. He was worried he would get caught outside so late and somewhere he shouldn’t have been in the first place. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, but the dark figure had already disappeared. Finding the back-entrance Harry reached forward to make his way inside when something shining in the grass caught his eye. Out of habit he looked around to see if anyone was watching him before crouching down to see what it was. A black stone laid in a bed of green, shining gold when the slowly fading light caught its edge.

It didn't look like any stone Harry had seen before. Its edges were completely smooth, making almost a perfect oval shape. The gold flecks inside it almost seemed to be swirling and when Harry reached out to touch it he felt bubbles popping all over his hand and arm. He grasped the stone curiously, a warmness washing over his entire body. It began to build in intensity until Harry felt like his entire body was hot and tingling. The stone felt as though it was going to burn right through his hand nearly making him drop it. But he couldn’t, he didn’t want the warm glow deep in his bones to stop. It was wonderful and terrifying. His heart began to thud in his chest and just when he was about to slip the stone into his pocket a voice called out harshly.

“Harry! What are you doing back here?” Ms. Berry was standing in the doorway, her rounded features shadowed by the light coming from inside. “What’s that you have there?” She made a move to grab the stone he was now clutching.

 “Nothing!” He stepped backward, almost tripping. He didn’t want her to take the stone from him. The black rock grew hotter as his heart began to beat faster.

 “Whatever you have Harry you’d best give it to me.” Ms. Berry’s eyes were stern as she closed the space between the two of them, reaching out again to take what was in his hand.

 “No!’ Harry screeched, fear suddenly clutching him. He turned to run away from her. Harry couldn’t explain the whispering he felt in his ear, telling him to keep the stone away from the caretaker. _Don’t let her have it._ If he didn’t know any better he’d have thought it was just the wind.

 Just as he was about to take off he felt a hand grabbing onto his shirt. He struggled against her, yelping as she reached around with her free arm. The stone was on fire now, a sweat breaking out across Harry’s skin in response. His mind raced as he felt cold fingers grasping his burning fist. He jerked his arm away and brought the stone up to his lips. _Command me_ , he heard the faint voice in his mind.

 “Away!” He whispered in response. Just as Ms. Berry was about to snatch the stone, Harry disappeared, and she was left standing on the doorstep in shock.

 


	2. Night

Wilkes had been tasked with checking on the Potter boy at the orphanage five years ago, when the brat had turned a year old. He never got close enough to the orphanage to be noticed, aided by a disillusionment charm. It was only recently that the young boy had noticed Wilkes presence, but he didn’t seem to care much except to observe the Death Eater in his task.

He never stayed more than a few minutes. Today however he had felt something strange, there was a strong magic coming from the orphanage. The field he stood in was surrounded by trees on all sides, the orphanage directly in the middle of the clearing. Wilkes watched Potter running from the group of kids outside to the back of the building. He moved from the front around to the side to see him better when the boy had noticed him.

There was always something unnerving about the green stare the boy fixed him with. It was as if Potter was attempting to read his mind, which Wilkes knew he wasn’t, he would have felt any such intrusion. However, it didn’t stop him from feeling unnerved by it. It was like falling under the heavy gaze of his master, scrutinized and dismissed. He came to watch the child at least once a year, sometimes twice if time permitted. Wilkes noticed that the Potter orphan mostly stayed away from others, his nose always firmly in a book. He knew that the other children were likely just as unnerved as he was by that empty, searching gaze.

They stared at each other, separated only by slightly overgrown grass and the rusted fence surrounding the orphanage. Something powerful was swelling around the building, a foreign kind of magic he had never felt before. Wilkes had felt the boy’s magic before, only briefly as Potter was still quite young and undeveloped. This was something different, he didn’t know, but it left a pit deep in his gut.

He turned on his heel, hoping that his exit would force Potter back inside so he could check the perimeter for whatever was causing the pulsating waves he was feeling. He could tell the source was somewhere not that far from where the boy was standing. He disappeared into the shadows cast by the trees and the sinking sun, turning to watch for the boy to leave. The wind rustled the branches and Wilkes felt a chill run down his spine. There was something strange about these woods. He had been around magic his entire life, had delved into the Dark Arts and felt the powerful and thrilling thrum that it filled him with. Nothing compared however, to the insidious and overwhelming weight of his Lord’s magic. The feeling coming from the woods and now the orphanage was different. It was old, like it had been weaved from stone and ivy. Wilkes had never felt anything like it before and it always set him on edge. It had intensified since his last visit, immediately setting him on high alert for anything out of place.

The Deatheater turned just in time to see Potter stopping outside the back door to the orphanage, bending down to peer at something. Whatever it was had entranced the boy, for he didn’t notice one of the caretakers peering at him from the doorway. The foreign magic he had felt earlier heightened, thickening the air around him oppressively. He could feel it crackling against his skin, licking him with heat.

He hurriedly made his way along the tree line to see better, watching as the caretaker reached to grab whatever had been in Potter’s hand. It looked like a rock, perhaps. He couldn’t see from this distance. The sparrows had stopped twittering in the trees. The breeze from earlier died down. It felt as though the world had stopped moving for a moment. Harry turned to run but the caretaker was too quick, grabbing him by the back of his shirt. Wilkes was just about to step from his cover beneath the trees when a resounding crack filled the air and Harry had disappeared.

The Deatheater felt his skin break out in a sweat. A port key? Who had placed a port key in the orphanage? Wilkes would have sensed it though; would have felt the familiar magic the transport objects were crafted with. This hadn’t felt anything like that. He quickly broke out into a run, making his way deeper into the forest. He had to find the boy, had to find him and return him to the orphanage and quickly.

Wilkes cast a tracking charm that would sense any magical signatures in the area. It could be easily countered or avoided by any competent  witch or wizard with a wand, but Potter was still a child. He felt the faint tug of magic coming from deeper within the woods and north of his current position. He took off through the trees like a fire was blazing behind him.

If he returned with news that Potter had escaped, and by some type of unknown port key no less he would be punished. His Lord would not be pleased, and Wilkes wasn’t sure he would survive it. The wards he had placed on the orphanage had been designed by his Lord personally, it was impossible for anything magical to have gotten through undetected.

Wilkes shuddered at the thought of a long yew wand pointed at him and the sinister gaze that lay beyond it. He quickened his pace, feeling the tugging of the charm growing as he pressed on through the thick undergrowth. Branches snagged his cloak and face, but he paid them no mind, his heart beating impossibly fast in his chest.

"There you are!" Wilkes whispered hoarsely. He could see Potter up ahead and quickly drew his wand to cast an incarcerous. The boy must have heard his approach however because he took off, heading deeper into the woods. Wilkes aimed his wand and shouted the spell, attempting to bind the boy but it hit the tree next to Potters head. Luckily the boy’s short legs were no match for Wilkes and he quickly gained on him, getting closer and closer. Potter abruptly turned to the left and Wilkes followed but the boy was gone.

“Damnit!” Wilkes shouted, birds taking off from the trees above at the sharp noise. How had he disappeared again? He could feel the tracking charm from earlier begin to tug him again, but this time it was pushing him south and still further into the woods.

He headed in the direction the spell was pulling him, faster than before. He nearly tripped over a fallen log as he went, the cold sinking of dread overtaking him. The charm changed directions abruptly causing him to halt in his pursuit and knocking into a lichen covered tree. Wilkes was being called back north now and he adjusted his direction heading back the way he had come. His stomach sank even further when he realized that he had made it back to where he had first spotted Potter a few minutes ago. Again, the spell swiftly changed direction, pushing him east this time.

“Something is interfering,” he spat at the dead leaves of the forest floor. Or someone was, he couldn’t be sure. Who would even know of the boy? His whereabouts had been concealed from all but Wilkes and his Lord. He canceled the tracking spell and began back in the direction he had come, sure that Potter would be somewhere in that direction. The Deatheater had to have gone a mile before he cast the spell again, hoping this time it would work. A faint tendril of magic was coming from just ahead of him.

“Got you.” He muttered, launching himself over a tree stump. He frantically pushed low hanging branches out of his way, mind spinning. There was a small stream ahead, the magic he felt his charm alerting him to should be just on the other side of it. A piece of the streams bank crumbled away at the force of his footsteps, stopping just at the edge.

Anger flooded his veins, burning its way through his body when he saw the other side of the stream empty. No one was there. Potter was gone. And just as soon as he realized this, the direction of the tracking spell changed again.

Wilkes screamed to the sunset stained sky before disapparating from the woods, fear and resignation overtaking him at what waited for him at his master’s feet. He prayed his death would be quick.

~

Tears were wetting Harry’s cheeks which were flushed from running. He had been making his way deeper into the woods, constantly looking over his shoulder for the cloaked man he knew was following him.

The voice he had heard before kept whispering to him – ‘ _Come, child._ ’ Harry didn’t know how he knew where to go, he just did. He still held the stone tightly in his hand, finding comfort in the warmth it was still giving off.

 He wondered yet again who that man was, and what exactly had come shooting out of the stick he’d been holding. It had nearly hit him! Harry knew the man wasn’t a nice person, he could just feel it coming off him, a sickly smell. It had shot fear into his veins before he had even saw the man approaching him.

 His legs were aching, he hadn’t stopped running for what felt like hours. Each time he had been ready to give up and collapse in exhaustion the voice had urged him onward – _Come, child._ He couldn’t resist it, no matter how badly he wanted to drop where he stood. He had to know where it was coming from, how this happened to him.

 More importantly he needed to get away from that man! Wherever the voice was taking him, Harry hoped he would be safe there.

 He made his way across yet another stream, his trainers now completely wet and covered in mud. The forest surrounded him on all sides, feeling like the walls of a room that kept getting smaller and smaller. Deeper and deeper into the trees he went and as he did the whispering became louder and louder, more urgent. Harry could barely see the sky through the branches above him, and he knew that soon it would be difficult to see ahead.

 The smell of burning wood filled his nose, the whispering fading away. The trees were changing from the oak and pine he had grown familiar with to ones with white bark and dark markings etched onto them. Strange symbols he’d never seen before and couldn’t understand. He could just make out the glow of a lantern ahead of him and Harry forced his legs to carry him toward it.

 There was a cottage made of what looked like white stone, with a straw roof, moss hanging from its edge. There was a smooth path of rocks leading to the door, and at the beginning of it a lantern hung from a pole. It swayed back and forth, creaking. Harry looked over his shoulder one last time, hoping that the cloaked man had gotten lost in the woods. Hesitating, Harry made his way to the wooden door, which was slightly open. The smell of burning wood from before was coming from inside and along with the warmth of what he assumed was a fire. He was so cold.

 He knocked on the open door and a soft voice came from the other side, “Come inside, child.” A chill ran through Harry’s body at the sound, it was the whispering that had led him here. The stories Ms. Berry had told the children came to him and he wondered if he should step inside or risk turning around and finding his way back to the orphanage.

 No, he couldn’t go back. Harry knew he couldn’t. The man that had been following him was still out there and there was always the chance he’d get lost. He didn’t know how to survive on his own in the woods. He wasn’t ready to die, alone and cold out here. Making up his mind Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He looked around but didn’t see anyone. The room he had stepped into was warmed by a fireplace made of stone arch. Hanging inside was an enormous black pot, steaming as whatever was inside boiled. It smelled like the lavender Ms. Berry had planted in the small garden outside and Harry couldn’t stop himself from taking a long breath of it. There was a table that sat low to the ground and surrounded by soft and overstuffed cushions embroidered with different flowers and plants. There were all sorts of old books lying about on top of the table, many of them with crumbling pages. He leaned over to peek at what some of them said but couldn’t read them, they were in a language he didn’t understand. There was a bookcase against the wall to the far right of the table, filled with books in a similar condition along with decorative boxes, trinkets and drippy candle stubs.

 “In here!” The same voice from before called and Harry took one last deep breath to calm himself before heading through the doorway not that far in front of him.

 The smell of something bitter overwhelmed him once he entered the room, resisting the urge to cover his nose out of politeness.

 “Mugwort can be a bit overpowering if you aren’t used to it.” The woman commented, stirring a pot like the one in the fireplace but smaller. She was tall and sleek, wearing a black dress that shimmered in the dim light. It looked as though she’d taken a piece of the night sky and spun it into cloth. Ebony hair fell down her back in ringlets, going this way and that in a sort of controlled mess, much like Harry’s own hair. But the most surprising thing about the woman, who was crushing something in a stone bowl with a marble stick, had to be her eyes. They stared at Harry intently from beneath dark lashes and brows, never leaving his for a moment as she continued crushing. They were hooded but not sleepy, they seemed as though they were alive with the soul of a thousand people, swimming around in icy blue depths.

 “I’ve been expecting you.” The woman purred, moving from the stone bowl and stick to cutting something that looked like a rough, brown nut into small pieces. She was standing at a long table that was more like a smooth stone slab propped up on wooden legs. On every wall surrounding them were floor to ceiling shelves filled with glass jars containing dried plants and animal parts, bright powders that shimmered in the dying light filtering from the window. Bundles of sticks and leaves hung from the ceiling, tied by twine and in various stages of life and death.

 Harry felt his mouth becoming dry, she hadn’t stopped staring at him as she cut, and her comment made his stomach flop. She had been expecting him? He knew the voice he’d heard earlier had sounded like this woman's, but it just couldn’t be possible, could it?

 “Who are you?” Harry croaked, fidgeting where he stood. Whenever his nerves got the better of him he found that movement helped to calm him.

 The woman looked down at him through lowered lashes, eyes tight and narrowed. She was looking at him now as if she were deciding whether she should answer the question or not, which Harry found quite odd. Why wouldn’t she want to tell Harry her name?

 “My name is Fea,” She answered after a long pause. “Come, child, make yourself useful and remove the leaves from that plant.” She pointed to a bundled plant that was a light green and looked soft and fuzzy. Harry quickly moved over to help, worried what might happen if this Fea person became annoyed with him. He ran a thumb along the broadside of the leaf, releasing some of the plants strong smell. He had remembered reading about this plant before, in a book at the orphanage.

 “Is this sage?” Harry wondered aloud, still stroking the leaves softly. He immediately felt stupid for asking, especially when those cold blue eyes only narrowed further at him. Suddenly, Harry felt so small.

 “It is. Be careful not to tear any of the leaves. Just pull them back from the stem, they will come away easily.” Fea instructed him, continuing her cutting. The dark nut was now in tiny pieces and she brushed them into her palm before placing them in the stone bowl with whatever she’d been grinding up before.

 "There was a man following me." Harry blurted out suddenly, still stroking the leaves absent mindedly. What if he hadn’t gotten lost and followed him here? The bright colored flash from the man’s stick filled his mind and his heart began to race again. He didn’t want that man to find him, his bitter smell would ruin this warm place.

 “He’s gone now.” She said sharply, using the stone stick to grind the nut into smaller pieces. The firmness of her words made Harry shiver. She sounded like the matron when Harry had made the tree branch fall on Brandon, as though she had just eaten something unpleasant.

 “How do you know?” Harry asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Did Fea know in the same way she had called to Harry? Somehow, he had disappeared from the orphanage, had she made that happen too? His hands shook as he began pulling the sage leaves away as she had instructed.

 “Do not fret, little one. You’re safe here.” Fea continued her work, using a long wooden spoon to carefully remove the powder from the stone bowl before sprinkling it into the steaming metal pot. “Would you like for me to tell you a story?” She was using the wooden spoon to carefully stir now, her hand steady as she went around and around.

 Harry bubbled up with a strange feeling that he couldn’t name, he felt annoyed with this woman. Who was she? Why had she brought him here? How did she know the bad man was gone? He didn’t want to hear a story, he wanted answers, so his stomach would stop flopping around inside him.

 “Don't you want to know who I am?” Harry bit out, regaining his nerve. The feeling of the soft sage leaves under his fingers calmed him. He pulled the last few from the stem, placing them in a neat pile on the table before staring at Fea expectantly. He startled a little when she laughed loudly, the sound filling the room before floating out the open window into the night air.

 “Who you are? No, I do not. You do not yet know who you are, child.” She smiled between chuckles, still stirring her pot constantly. What kind of answer was that? Of course, Harry knew who he was! “Now, would you like to hear a story?” Fea asked again, but this time it sounded less like a question.

 Harry nodded quickly, worrying that he might have upset this strange woman in the woods. He didn’t want her to turn him over to the man in the cloak. Though, he very much disliked stories, it always reminded him of Ms.Berry and her suspicious looks.

 She came around the table to stand beside him, finally breaking the pace of her stirring. She handed him a small blade before rolling up one of the sage leaves, “Roll the leaves up one by one and use the blade to slice them into thin strips.” She moved back over to her pot, beginning the careful stirring yet again.

 “There once was a boy,” Fea began, stirring in the opposite direction as she spoke. “He had no name, at least not one he liked, and no family. He was alone, but he was smart. He never made a friend, but he knew that didn’t matter because one day he would do something incredible.” Fea leaned back, never stopping the movement of her long spoon, to grab a jar off the shelf behind her. She didn’t look to see where she was reaching, just eased a small glass jar filled with slimy green balls down.

 Harry watched her, slightly impressed. She must spend quite a bit of time in here to know where an ingredient was without looking. He rolled up a leaf, moving the knife through it, his eyes glued to his task. He didn’t want to cut himself and look foolish.

 “He kept himself busy by learning, but one day his curiosity got the better of him. Despite warnings from his caretakers about wandering into the woods by himself, he snuck out of the orphanage he was at and went on an adventure.” Fea continued, pulling a few of the slime balls out of her jar and squeezing them over her pot. They made a nasty squishing sound while a purple colored ooze dripped out into the pot below. Harry snapped to attention at her words, more curious now than ever. Was she really telling him this story? Out of habit Harry nearly rolled his eyes but stopped himself.

 “He wandered deep into the woods. Soon it was quite dark and getting cold, the boy was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find his way back. However, he spotted a light ahead and hoped someone might be there to help him find his way back.” Fea leaned forward to inhale the steam coming off her pot and smiled. Whatever she was making seemed to be coming along.

 She quickly turned to Harry, squinting her eyes at him again before asking, “Are you nearly done with those?” She made a point of lowering her eyes to look at the pile of still whole sage.

 “Sorry,” Harry muttered. He rolled another leaf, “Working on it.”

 "The boy made his way to a small mossy cottage, warm light coming from inside. A nice-looking woman stood just outside the door, urging him to come inside. It was the witch the caretaker had warned him about.” Fea stopped, waiting patiently for Harry to finish cutting but his hands had begun to shake again.

 His heart beat fast in his chest. Why was she telling him this story? He tried his best to calm himself and continue his task but the quicker his heart beat the more difficult it became. He didn't dare look up to meet the woman's eyes.

 “Though, this witch did not tie him up. She didn’t cut him up and roast him over her fire, using his bones for some devilish spell. No, this witch was unlike any he had heard of before.” She reached over the table now, placing her hand over Harry’s trembling hand that held the knife.

 “Careful now, you’ll ruin the sage.” Harry couldn’t help but jump a little at the touch. He had expected her hands to be cold, but they glowed with the warmth he had felt from the stone he’d held earlier.

 "This witch did something the little boy could never have dreamed," Fea continued, pulling her hand away from Harry’s and retrieving the pieces of sage he had finished slicing. “She helped him do what he had always known he was destined to – something incredible.” Her voice sounded strange as she said this, it had gone rough and Harry knew that this was the end to the story.

 "What did she help him do? What was so incredible?” He couldn’t help but ask, finishing up the last leaf as he spoke. He handed them over the dark-haired woman, his heart still a presence he couldn’t ignore in his chest.

 “Come here, child.” She whispered, gesturing to the spot beside her. Harry finally looked up to meet her eyes. They were alive and bright with excitement. The room was lit by the soft glow of a lamp and candles spread out around the room, making the everything flicker in and out of existence. He silently moved over to the spot beside her.

 “You’re going to finish the potion.” She commanded. Harry’s face scrunched up at the word ‘potion.’ Fea laughed at his confusion, the same bright laughter from before. “Stir the potion three times clockwise, and twice counterclockwise.” His face was still creased but he reached forward to grab the spoon anyway.

 Fea grasped his wrist, tutting at him, “Without touching the spoon.”

 Harry twitched before biting out, “That’s impossible.” He had the sinking feeling that she was making a joke of him and anger bit his insides at the thought.

 “You know what to do.” Fea stated simply, releasing Harry’s wrist. He didn’t know what this lady was going on about. How could he stir something without touching the spoon? Either she was crazy, or she was making fun of him. He was beginning to think it was the first one, which made him panic a little. If she was nuts, then who knew what she would do to him? He couldn’t risk running now, she was sure to grab him before he could make it to the door. How had he let himself get into this mess in the first place? It wasn’t his fault though; the stone had somehow started all this! It had made him disappear, somehow. It had led him here, no, Fea had led him here. To the mossy cottage in the woods, like the one in Ms. Berry’s stories. Except now he was the little boy with no name and no family, wandering about somewhere he had no business being. He was going to be roasted on the fire by this mad woman with crazy black curls and blues eyes that made his skin prickle. Or perhaps, she wasn’t going to eat him. Maybe, she was going to help him, just like the witch in the woods had helped the orphan in her story. Harry had always known he was different, had always hoped he would someday leave the orphanage to do something great but he had never known how –

 The cup. The cup of water in the cupboard came rushing back to his mind. The pure joy he felt at the thought of what he had done filled him up completely, just as the water and flowed freely that night. He was _special_.

 Harry thought of the spoon, pushing his excitement outside of him like a breath he’d held for too long. He watched as the long piece of wood sitting in the pot began to move, first clockwise and then again in the opposite direction. He felt his head spin a little as he struggled to breath.

 The wom- Fea, pulled out a stick like the one the man had earlier, and Harry didn’t even have time to feel fear at the sight of it. She waved the stick silently over the pot and the steam rising from it slowly faded away. She grabbed a stone cup off the table and dipped it into the potion before handing it to him. He nearly spilled it on the floor, his hands weak.

 “It’s a calming draught, it will help with your nerves.” She murmured, helping Harry get a better grasp before he drank down the potion in three long gulps. Harry’s toes began to warm, and he wiggled them in response. The soft heat slowly made its way up his legs, spreading through the rest of his body like a blanket. His hands went slack, his unrelenting heartbeat slowing to a steady rhythm in his chest. He finally felt like he could breathe again.

 “You’re a witch!” Harry squeaked, coming back to himself. Fea took the cup from his hand before it fell to the floor, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. She reached forward and pushed a dark hair back from Harry’s face. Her eyes were soft now, looking at him in a sleepy way. No one had ever looked at Harry like that and he felt his insides grow warmer.

 “And you’re a wizard.”


	3. Crystal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly soo sorry that this is crazy long, but I couldn't find a good place to break it up so I just left it as is. Enjoy!

The room Harry was given was small, but it was better than the one he’d had to share at the orphanage. Fea had somehow known Harry had a healthy habit for reading and again the small boy wondered just how much she really knew about him and how.

 The candlelight flickered across the walls and the warm knit blanket Harry was curled up with. He had his head propped up as he read the book lying next to him -  _A Treatise on Magic_. Its pages were thin and weathered, bound at the seam by tightly sewn thread. Harry turned each page with great care, afraid that it might crumble otherwise. He scratched his head, rereading the same page for the third time.

 He was getting tired and had to try his best to keep his heavy eyes open. He’d lost track of how long it had been since he left the orphanage, quickly forgetting it’s stone walls and the suspicious looks. Fea had given him a new book to read each week, asking for a summary when he was finished so she knew Harry had learned what was important from each one.

 He was hungry for more, always quickly finishing each one. There was so much to learn. He wondered often when Fea would teach him how to use his magic, but he knew that he had to be patient. Theory always came first. That much he had learned from his schooling in the muggle town.

  _Muggle_. That had been a new word he’d quickly picked up from the history books he’d been reading. Muggles weren’t like him, they didn’t have magic. Some wizards thought they were a nuisance and said nasty things about them, while others were more understanding. Harry still hadn’t decided how he felt about all of that.

 He scratched his head, turning another page, dust smearing onto his blanket. There was a soft knock on his door and Harry knew it was Fea. She always checked on him in the evening.

 “Yes?” Harry called out, waiting for the door to creak open. Fea made her way inside, the shadows always seemed to hide her, as if she was commanding them to. She came to the edge of Harry’s bed, drawing her shawl up around herself as she sat.

 “Still reading, I see.” Fea smiled, her eyes darkening in the candlelight. She never questioned, it was as though she knew the world so well she didn’t need to. Harry hoped one day he would be as sure of things as she was, that he might hold the same commanding presence she did. Even seated in such a comfortable way he couldn’t help but feel as though she filled up the entire room with her presence.

 “Yes, this one is harder than the last few.” Harry admitted, his eyes flicking down to the book lying beside him.

 “It is much older than the rest, I would be surprised if you didn’t find the language a bit difficult to understand.” She smoothed out the sheets beside her, staring out the window on the wall beside Harry’s bed.

 “I’m confused by something,” Harry began, sitting up and leaning against his pillows. “The last book explained the two different branches of magic as Light and Dark. This book talks about a third kind of magic.” He tilted his head to the side, curious about this detail. He couldn’t remember a mention of this third branch of magic in any other book he’d read so far.

 “How is it that no other historian could know about it except this one? I don’t remember reading about it anywhere else.” Harry asked, finally getting to the bit that was itching in the back of his mind.

 Fea smiled again, this time with less softness, her features becoming impossibly darker. She reached over Harry, grabbing the book with little care, making the boy jerk. Fea chuckled in amusement at his astonishment as she leafed through the pages.

 “I wrote this treatise, many moons ago, child.” She hummed, running a long finger along the seam of the binding. Harry couldn’t help but grit his teeth at the term of endearment she’d adopted for him.

 “Why won’t you call me by my name, I’ve tried telling you it’s Ha-” He began, for what felt like the hundredth time before she cut him off. Just as she’d done the times before when he’d tried to introduce himself.

 “Hush now,” She chided him before tossing the book back onto Harry’s bed. His eyes were wide, but he didn’t jerk forward to catch it like she thought he might. “You are still so young and can be anybody you wish to be. Can do anything your heart desires.” She was looking out the window again, a dreamy look on her face as she spoke.

 “You have the power to choose whatever destiny you see fit, but first you must learn a few things about yourself and the world you will one-day step into. It will make it easier to decide.” She trailed off. Harry huffed in frustration, sometimes Fea could be so mysterious. Like a puzzle with no solution.

 “Decide what, exactly?” Harry narrowed his eyes at her, pulling the discarded book into his lap with care.

 “Who you want to be, child. At eight you are hardly in a position to do so.” Fea whispered, her eyes making their way to meet his without turning her head to do so. “There are many who would wish to see you pushed into a box you couldn’t find your way out of. I will never cage you in.”

 Harry felt his skin prickle, a chill running through him despite the warm blanket. Again, he wondered how much she knew about him, what she wasn’t telling him. There was just too much! How could she expect him to decide these things on his own?

 “One day you will know in your heart who you want to be. When the time comes, you will come to me and we will greet each other as partners.” She smiled again, ending the line of conversation.

 “How many moons ago did you write this?” Harry tried another topic, one that usually ended in the same vague responses as the last. Fea kept any information about herself close to her heart.

 “Too many to count now.” She stood from the bed quietly, her dress not making so much as a rustle. “Goodnight, child.” Fea called before sliding out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

 Harry sighed, falling back onto his pillows. He closed his eyes, the book forgotten next to him where it had fallen and drifted off to sleep.

 

~

 A crack sounded through the trees as Harry brought his axe down, splitting another log of wood in two. He knew Fea could use magic to do this, but Harry didn’t mind. The early morning was his favorite time of day, the woods still quiet while the animals slept. Besides, splitting wood was better than pulling eyes from newts for potions.

 “Are you nearly finished?” Fea’s voice sounded too loud in the surrounding stillness of the woods. Harry startled at the sound of it, dropping his axe.

 “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” Harry threw a glare over his shoulder at her, picking up his axe as he did. The humidity of summer clung to him despite the sun’s low position in the sky. Sweat slicked his forehead, rolling down into his eyes. The wetness of summer was better now that he didn’t need his glasses, courtesy of Fea. He didn’t miss the annoying things always slipping down his nose.

 “Then don’t let me.” She commented idly, looking over Harry’s work. He knew she was just making a show of it, knowing Harry was more than capable of splitting wood. “Your birthday is in two weeks.” She flipped a log over with her foot, staring down at it with a blank face.

 Harry had almost forgot, he had been so busy with all that Fea had been teaching him. She made him rise early for the house chores to keep him disciplined, before he began his daily reading after breakfast. It had been two months already and well into July now.

 “Is there anything you’d like? A trinket of some sort, perhaps?” Fea watched him now instead of the logs, her gaze fixed on Harry with interest.

 He couldn’t help but jump at the opportunity.

 “I want to start learning how to use magic!” Harry blurted out. It was the first thing that had come to his mind, he didn’t want any toys or even any books. He laid awake at night thinking about the spoon stirring itself in the cauldron, happiness filling him as he fell asleep.

 Fea quirked an eyebrow, assessing him. She knew Harry was gnawing at the bit to begin learning magic, but there was still much he needed to do before they could begin their work in earnest. However, she knew it was time to begin preparations.

 “As you wish,” She waved her hand and the logs began stacking themselves in a neat pile. She couldn’t help teasing him with the small display, knowing he drank up moments like these. She turned on her heel making her way back inside, the chirping of the rising song birds following her.

 

~

“Come, child.” Fea stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her tall figure casting a long shadow in the early morning light. Harry was preparing his morning tea, carefully sipping at the steaming liquid.

 “No even a ‘ _Happy Birthday’_ for me?” He smirked, looking at Fea from beneath his lashes. The woman only smiled before turning on her heel and making her way to leave their cottage. Harry sighed at her, accustomed to her curious behavior. He drank down as much of the still scalding tea as he could before following after his mentor quickly.

 Fea stood waiting by the iron gate to their home, leaning against the metal, head turned to the sky. Harry couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips, at the excitement beginning to bud like a sapling in the spring within his chest.

 Fea turned her head to look at him before turning again and making her way into the woods, disappearing into the mist that still clung to the trees and underbrush. Harry followed silently behind her, his steps quiet as he went. He couldn’t help but think of how he had run blindly through these woods not long ago, terrified. So much had changed since then. Harry knew these woods like he had lived in them his whole life, had grown to be as much a part of their dark mystery as the aspen trees circling their cottage, or the ravens that watched from the heights above.

Harry caught up to Fea, walking in stride with her. The morning sun was rising in the sky, filtering rays of light in through the trees above them. Birdsong rang through the air, carried here or there on the passing breeze.

 “Do you remember what you read in a _Treatise on Magic_?” Fea murmured from his side, eyes fixed forward. Harry nodded, carefully stepping over a fallen log in his path. Fea remained silent for what felt like too long before continuing, “Light and Dark magic represent two separate branches that grow from the same tree. Both together create harmony and health in the tree that they sprouted from.” They were coming upon a clearing now; a copse of trees grew proudly in the center. Harry could just make out movement in the stand but couldn’t see what it was from where they stood at the edge of the tree line. Fea stopped, standing in the shade.

 “Why do some wizards and witches hate Dark magic and some hate Light magic so much, then?” Harry squinted ahead of them, trying to make out what was lurking ahead.

 “Ignorance.” Fea stated simply, drawing the hood of her cloak around her face. The wind had picked up at her words and Harry shivered. “Both of these branches grow from the same tree. Almost all have forgotten this simple truth. They call it the Old ways, but they do not know.” Fea turned toward Harry now, looking down at him, blue eyes alight. The wind gusted.

 “This Magic is as old as these woods, as time itself – it is life and it is death. Without it, we would not be.” Fea’s face had become impossibly shadowed by her hoods, looking more a wraith than the woman with wild curls Harry had come to know. In that moment she looked impossibly old.

“Muggle technology pollutes the Earth, their weapons destroy and their thirst for more poisons all they touch. Wizards and Witches are no better,” Fea laughed at this, the sound high and cold, piercing through the air, “Their blind allegiance to the passing rhetoric of this or that have made them _weak._ ”

 Harry knew what Fea was referring to, she had mentioned more than once how she felt about Light and Dark magic and how magical folk treated them. Picking one or the other, demeaning one side over the other, limiting themselves with wands. Harry had never really understood but he was beginning to see, now.

 “So without Old Magic, the other two branches wouldn’t exist?” Harry could feel the dark mood that had overcome Fea, could feel magic swelling in the air, making the wind unbearable. Her eyes were still fixed on him, burning his skin.

 “Yes,” She hissed, turning to the clearing once more. Clouds were rolling in, darkening the sun and casting the woods in shadows that seemed to reach out to them. “When there is not harmony in the tree, it’s roots begin to die. Soon, all magic will fade into oblivion.” Fea whispered, her words barely heard over the shuttering trees around them. She pulled her cloak around her tighter, stepping into the clearing. Harry followed, his heart an unrelenting hammer in his chest. He could feel the force of the magic surrounding Fea, clinging to the folds of her clothes, bending the grass out of her path like a magnet.

 Harry could see what had been moving around the trees earlier – three wolves, their hackles raised and teeth showing. He hesitated for a moment, but Fea continued towards them undeterred. He nearly reached out to stop her but when she approached the wolves sat obediently by her side. Harry allowed himself to gape for a moment before finding composure and continuing forward. And then he saw it – standing in the closest to the middle tree was a man, writhing but unable to move. His eyes blazed as he saw them approach, he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, his face turning red from the effort.

 “My precious child, we cannot allow magic to die, we cannot allow the Old to wither away and with it all else.” She drew him close to her at this, clutching his cloak. She leaned down, her curls brushing Harry’s face, “It is our destiny.” She whispered.

 “Who is this man? Is he a wizard?” Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, unsure of where Fea was going with this. Why was he bound and mute? When he had asked to learn about magic he had been excited, but now uncertainty gripped him.

 “Indeed, he is.” She released Harry from her grip, facing the wizard in front of her. “Do not be afraid dear one, do you not recognize a foe when he is in front of you?” She reached toward Harry, grasping his chin to turn his face to look at the man now.

 Harry squinted before realization dawned on him, he nearly gasped but it got caught somewhere in his throat, coming out strangled.

 “The man who chased me.” Harry whispered, finding his voice. Had he not thought of that very same terror filled memory on their walk here? Harry had been so vulnerable then, could have died at this man’s hands. But so much had changed, he reminded himself, now he had purpose. Now he could be powerful. He was no longer the defenseless child stumbling through the woods with tear filled eyes.

 “Do you wish to punish him?” Fea’s voice was harsh in the silence of Harry’s shock. He flinched at the rasping words, hesitant again but only for a moment.

 “Yes.” Harry could barely stop himself before the answer came to him, but he wasn’t sure he would want to stop if he could. He wanted to prove that he was capable of wielding this ancient and depthless magic only Fea seemed to remember. Harry wanted to be powerful, to be great, to prove himself to the woman that had given him a chance to be something more than an abandoned child in a hillside orphanage.

“The wolves will do your bidding, command them.” She smiled, an eerie upturning of lips that sent a chill through Harry he was unsure he could shake.

“T-That’s not possible!” Harry sputtered, indignant at her request. How could he command an animal? He couldn’t speak to them, had no wand to cast a spell to control them, could not possess their mind.

“Impossible?” Fea only seemed to grow more excited at this, wind whipping her hair from within her hood. “Watch, child.”

Fea leaned forward, resting a hand on top of one of the wolf’s head, eyes closed. Her body went rigid, utterly still and immovable as stone. Harry watched in awe as she lifted her hand from the wolf’s head, slowly bringing it up to point at the wizard stuck frozen in time. Fea must have broken whatever charm was keeping the man’s silence, only moments later the clearing was filled with the sounds of pained screams and the howling of wolves. 

~

The sun shone down on Harry through the treetops. He had gone three miles into the woods today, beginning his trek at dawn. This was his favorite spot to train, nestled into the aspen trees beside a stream. The moss that grew there was soft and made a nice seat for him, his back leaning against a river rock that stuck up from the earth. Harry let his eyes slide shut, taking a deep breath in slowly before releasing it at the same pace. Fea’s birthday gift to him clung to many of his waking moments, but that day in the stormy clearing seemed so far away now. Harry felt no remorse over what he had witnessed.

 Instead of learning spells, she had taught him how to meditate. He hadn’t understood her _Treatise on Magic_ until now. He couldn’t understand the third branch of magic, how no one else seemed to even know of its existence except Fea. He knew now.

 _It made up everything_. It was the essence of life, and she knew how to feel it. How to tap into it, manipulate and use it. It was better than Light magic, more powerful than Dark magic.

It was the magic of Merlin and Morgan la Fey. It was ancient and woven into the fabric of everything. Trees, plants, animals, minerals. Fea had explained this to him, on his birthday. She had avoided answering his questions on the _Treatise_ until then. But now he knew, his questions had been answered. Light and Dark magic came from Old Magic. Some wizards called it different things, but none of them truly understood it’s true nature. Most wizards and witches thought it was weather magic or hex bags. But it was so much more.

So, he had begun his meditation, each morning with a warm cup of lavender and chamomile to calm him, before he made his way deep into the woods. He needed to clear his mind, to quiet his thoughts and open himself up as wide as possible. Only then would he be able to reach out and feel the magic thrumming around him, waiting to be _known_.

Summer was beginning to fade away, and Harry still hadn’t managed to reach out. Each time he felt himself get closer, but it always remained out of reach. He had been doing this every day since his birthday, until noon when the sun was high in the sky.

Harry listened to the stream next to him, the water moving over the rocks in soft wet streams. He focused on the sound, on the warm rays of light hitting him, on the sound of wings flapping above him. The leaves in the wind, it's brush against his skin. He pushed away his thoughts, tuning into the sounds and feelings around him. The bubbly feeling inside him filled him up and he felt his skin tingling. Everything fell away like a curtain moving away from a window, his skin wet from the heat inside him. He pushed, just a bit, and he could hear his heart beating in his chest. A rabbit rustled in the bushes, and he could _hear_ its whiskers swishing back and forth as it looked for some clover. The stream had stopped it’s gurgling and there were no more birds above him. He pushed a little further, like his mind was an arm reaching for something, something just out of his grasp.

‘ _What’s this? Nothing, nothing here.’_ Sounded softly in his ears, the twitching of ears against the underbrush, and just like that it was gone. The world around him rushed back into focus, the stream sounded like crashing waves beside him in the absence of the quiet of his mind.

He heaved out a breath, wiping sweat from his forehead. He knew that had been the rabbit, it had to have been. Harry smiled, pressing his face into the cool rock behind him. He was getting closer.

 

~

Fea raised a dark colored stone up, letting it catch in the candlelight making it shine a deep blue. Harry tilted his head to get a better look, watching as she moved it back and forth. It changed different shades, like the ocean rolling in and out.

“Labradorite.” Harry reached forward and took the stone from her, holding it in his hand. It remained a dark crystalline blue before he held it up again, watching as it shifted before his eyes to azure in the center. “Used in protection rituals and to aid in divination.” He placed the stone on the table next to the amethyst and quartz pillars.

“Good,” Fea praised him though her voice remained emotionless. They had been studying crystal lore for the past month, as it was too cold outside for Harry to continue his outdoor meditations. He still practiced daily, but from inside their cottage.

The next stone she pulled from the bag was black, like the night sky. It looked depthless, as if the entire universe might be waiting inside to swallow him up if Harry stared too long. She held it up to the light as she had done with the Labradorite, letting the light fall across it’s smooth surface. It shimmered with golden flecks and Harry couldn’t bring his eyes from it. It was a near replica of the stone he had found on the ground outside the orphanage.

“Obsidian,” He whispered, reaching forward to run a finger along it’s curving edge. “Gold sheen obsidian.” He clarified at Fea’s prying look. She let the stone fall into Harry’s outstretched palm. He felt the warmth emanating from it, like it might ignite at any moment. On instinct Harry brought the stone up to his mouth, resting it against his lips as he’d done before. He closed his eyes and allowed the feeling of familiarity wash over him.

“Aligned with divine will, gold sheen obsidian aids in self-discovery. Wearing the stone helps to manifest the highest good for its user.” Fea supplied for Harry, as he seemed lost in the stones aura. “Some have used it for scrying, but it is not the best mineral for such practices. What stone is?” She watched as Harry came back to awareness, pulling the stone away from his lips.

“What?” He muttered, still holding the obsidian tightly in his hand. His face flushed from being caught unaware.

“Pay attention,” Fea bit out, but it lacked any heat. “What is the best mineral for scrying?” She repeated.

“Polished moonstone,” Harry replied easily. He placed the obsidian on the table with reluctance, running his finger across it one last time before pulling away sharply as though he’d been burned.

“Did you use this stone to bring me here?” He asked quickly before he lost the courage to ask at all. He couldn’t help but feel a connection to the pitch-black glass, as though it called out to his magic. The room hummed as the energy in it heightened. He had never reacted to any of the other stones this strongly before. Mostly he could sense their inherent properties and how they acted upon him, but this was different. It drew him in, like a bee to honey.

“Yes, I did.” Fea nodded shortly, her eyes still fixed on Harry. His eyes were distant, and she knew he was feeling the effects of the stone. “Do you feel it, child?” She wanted to hear him say it.

“I do,” Harry muttered, still staring at the black oval on the table. “What is it?” Even still he could feel his magic filling the room. Sometimes when he was helping Fea brew potions he’d feel his magic reaching out, wishing to be used. But this was nothing like he’d ever felt before. It was wild, and unruly like the untamed darkness hiding between the trees just outside. It was other worldly and so heavy. It felt like it was pushing all the air from his lungs.

“The stone is connecting to your magic, asking to be commanded.” Fea moved forward, framing Harry’s face with her hands. She purposely moved his gaze from the table to meet hers. “It knows that you long to forge your own future, and so it wishes to aid you in your journey.” Her hands dropped from his cheeks, reaching toward the velvet pouch on the table. She pulled another stone from inside, this one a murky white color. Like ice, but flecked with shimmering lavender and powder blue spots.

She held it up for Harry to examine and like that the moment was gone. The energy filling the room dissipated, leaving the young wizard feeling empty.

“Opal,” He responded. His voice was empty as he continued in their lesson. “Best used in charm bags to inspire love and positive emotions.”

 

~

Harry watched the snow falling from the kitchen window, blanketing everything in quiet. There was no life to be seen, the branches outside bare. He turned back inside to watch the cauldron stirring itself on the table. The last ingredient was a quartz essence blessed beneath the new moon. He had gathered and prepared all the ingredients himself, without assistance from Fea. She had trusted him enough to complete the cleansing potion for their Yule offering, satisfied with his training so far.

“Are you finished?” Fea called from the doorway. She was always moving about like a wraith, never making a sound. Sometimes she’d be in a room for hours before Harry had even noticed her presence.

“Nearly done.” He looked up from beneath his lashes, pulling the spoon from the cauldron. He uncorked the quartz essence, measuring it out before dumping it into the steaming liquid. The color changed from a deep purple to clear, swirling around like mist. “Have you completed the altar?” He asked. Harry had stopped being fearful of the woman he lived with, who had shown him nothing but kindness. Who had opened a new world filled with power and control he had never known before. She would never punish him for questioning her.

“Yes, just waiting on you.” Her voice was tinged with impatience and Harry swore she was tapping her bare foot, but he’d never know as it never made a sound against the wood floor.

He dipped two stone cups into the cauldron, setting them on a silver tray that had been draped with an altar cloth. It was woven with an image of a bare branch, just beginning to show red buds on its tips. He followed Fea into the living room silently, holding the tray in front of him. He took care not to spill any of the potion as he went, before setting it down on the table that had been cleared for their ritual.

There were two green candles, placed on either side of a silver bowl. The bowl was filled with the offerings Harry had gathered throughout the month. There were acorns and chestnuts, as well as a yew and holly branch and some small honey cakes he’d baked. Behind the offerings was a small dish filled with incense – frankincense, pine needles, cedar and juniper berries. Harry struck a match, igniting a charcoal tab that he placed in the incense. He blew lightly on it, watching the fragrant smoke begin to fill the air.

They both reached forward in tandem, taking their cups from the tray. They drank the cleansing potion, never exchanging a word or a glance as they did so. Fea had taught him the steps to many of the rituals of Old and didn’t need to instruct him on what to do. He felt warmth spread through him as the potion took effect, temporarily removing any impurities or negative energies that might have taken root in his aura. It allowed a more clear and open connection to the magic they would be calling on. Muggles typically used salt water that had been cleansed and anointed by the priest or priestess performing the ritual.

Fea took a small bottle off the altar containing the anointing oil they’d be using. Fea pulled out the stopper, wetting the tips of her fingers with oil. It smelled of pine and orange, the scent perfuming the air around them and mingling with the incense. The stone hearth glowed with the light from the Old Yule log Fea had already begun burning.

She began the opening invocation, “We invite thee, Queen of Winter, Lady in White, whose jeweled crown glitters all around us.” The wind outside gusted against the shutters at her words, and Fea reached forward to anoint Harry under the Mother Goddess. “And whose shimmering veil is of the never-ending night. Be with us now!” The wind blew again harshly, the draft it caused making the flames dance in the fire with delight.

Harry shivered against the sudden cold, but allowed the feeling of the Winter magic to comfort him. Fea had instructed him to reflect on the transformational powers brought by the death of Winter and how he envisioned himself being ‘reborn’ from it.

"May we know thy cold and quieting beauty. Welcome!” Fea’s voice filled the darkened room, accompanied by the crackling of the log burning away to ash behind them. Harry reached forward and took the bottle from the table, his hands trembling a little in excitement. He coated his fingertips with the anointing oil before beginning his invocation.

“O Ancient God of the Forest, regal stag of seven tines, whose icy antlers sparkle in the sunlight.” The flames within the fire danced a little higher at his words. Harry could feel the power surging within the room, dispelling the cold that the Lady of Winter had brought to them. He ran his thumb across Fea’s forehead, making sure not to get any in her hair, anointing her under the Sun King. “In this, thy season of sacrifice. Be with us now! And share in the warmth of this hearth fire. Welcome!” Harry chanted, letting the crackle of the flames on his back comfort him. The room was alive with the elements, fire and water, a powerful duality.

Fea reached within her robes, pulling out the stone she had chosen as the conduit for the ritual. The golden sheen on the black stone caught in the flickering flame light and Harry smiled. She carefully handed the stone to him continuing, “The light was born, the light now dies. The wheel turns, the year is flown. Rest now, in the dark of the night.” Fea finished. The New Yule log was resting underneath the table their altar was set upon and Harry reached forward and took it. He felt it’s rough surface beneath his fingers as he laid it into the fire, feeling the flames lick his fingers.

Fea was soon by his side, holding each of the green candles. She handed one to Harry, leaning forward to light the tip of hers in the fire. Harry followed suit, settling down in front of the warm stone arch, placing his candle in the holder they’d set on the stone ledge. Fea settled in next to him and in unison they chanted: “We toast the New Year!”

Harry let his eyes slide shut, feeling relaxed. The winter energies dancing about the room, tickling his skin softly, cocooned him as he slid into a meditative state. They would now reflect on their intentions for the New Year, while awaiting any visions the Mother Goddess might give them to aid in the path they had set for themselves.

Harry had thought long about what he intended to accomplish in the future. He knew that he wanted to complete his training with Fea, to learn all he possibly could to better prepare himself. He wanted power, and complete control over his life and undertakings. Fea had given him history books to read on magical society, detailing from Merlin and Morgana to the present. So much had changed since Fea’s ancestors had walked the Earth. Harry had vowed that he would one day rectify the damage being done to Old Magic and by extension Dark and Light magic. Wizards were destroying their greatest gifts. He also vowed that he would learn all he could about Old Magic, and finally succeed in commanding it.

He reflected on these things within and felt the magic of the ritual building up around him, as though solidifying his agreement with the universe to set out on this path. He could feel something touching him then, like a hand on his shoulder but he didn’t break from the meditation to look. It felt like cold water was running down his arm from where it had touched him, seizing his heart in its icy grip. As though Lady Winter herself was visiting him. Suddenly his mind was filled with deep crimson, pupils dilated and flooding the red irises like an ink spill. The eyes narrowed, staring into Harry’s soul.

He gasped for breath, eyes flying open in surprise. The fire in front of him had died out, leaving the room still with darkness. His candle was a burnt down stub and he removed it from the holder with shaking hands. Some of the warm wax dripped out onto his hand, burning him. He continued to grasp it tightly as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

Those eyes. They had pierced him. Harry’s heart raced in his chest and he couldn’t help but shake the chill that filled him. He had been gifted with a vision, but of what? A person with intimidating red eyes? Harry glanced next to him, seeing Fea deep in meditation, her candle also burned out in front of her. He found a blanket and draped it over her statue-like form, hoping not to disturb her.

Harry made it to his bed and found the inviting embrace of sleep quickly. He dreamt of his heart turning to obsidian colored ice in his chest.

 

~

 The coming of Spring brought with it a week of unending rain. Harry had spent his time cooped up inside reading an old tome on the Witch Trials and burnings, and their subsequent effect on wizard culture. It never ceased to amaze him how muggle prejudices had a way of working their way into wizarding society, creating bans and prohibitions on branches of magic. He found it difficult to concentrate however, as the coming of spring meant he could continue his outdoor meditations.

 The second week in May was met with a sun shining low in the sky, and not a cloud in sight. Harry quickly began his chores, waking at the earliest light of dawn. He split wood with a singular focus he had never felt before. Still riding high from the magic of their Yule ritual, he felt more purposeful in everything he did.

He packed a bag and set out for his favorite stream. The moss around the river was soaked with rain water still, but he didn’t mind. His pants smeared with mud as he sat against the rock. Harry smiled against the sunlight coming in through the branches, joy budding in his chest like the leaves breaking through above him. Life had returned to the landscape so quickly and the force of it filled him.

He cleared his mind, pushing away his emotions to begin his task. There was nothing that was going to stop him, he knew that any obstacles that presented themselves to him could be overcome. Harry knew that each day he spent with Fea only brought him closer to becoming the powerful wizard he knew he was meant to be.

Harry took a moment to reflect upon the book he’d been reading the past few weeks. How the lives of so many witches had been taken in the haste of hatred. How magical arts like weather and element manipulation had been lost in the frenzy of the trials aftermath. Wizard government had been minimal at best during those times and the need for protection and more important secrecy had spurred the forming of the wizarding institutions that now shaped their society.

He wanted to bring back the beauty of Old Magic. He wanted to become its ally and aid. He knew Fea was, she had been hiding for so long to try and preserve what had been lost. She had a unique connection with the magic around her, a true master of its sheer power. He had seen her do it, had seen her create fire out of thin air, to change the skies above, to command animals to do her bidding. She almost never used her wand, finding it to be a hindrance.

Harry wanted that. He wanted to be able to control his magic within himself and around him. He let that feeling of want, that desire, to overtake him. He could hear the melting ice upon the stream fighting to break back into a flow. The birds returning from their winter migration, the rustling of squirrels beginning their spring scavenge for more acorns. He wanted to be connected to all of it, to be a part of this ecosystem as not an intruder but a member of the life web.

He reached out from his heart, from so deep within himself he wondered if he’d ever truly known the depths of who he was. He reached and reached until he brushed against something. It cooled his warming skin, like water splashed against his face. He pushed further, making his way into it without fear of what lay beyond.

A wave came crashing down upon him this time, and he soaked in its force with thirst. The world around him vibrated, hummed with life like flapping wings. The ferns pushing through the dead leaves covering the ground _spoke_ , they whispered their struggle and determination. Ants crawling across the rock behind him sounded off like a chime in the breeze. The water babbled away nonsense that he couldn’t yet understand but that he felt in the core of his being, an unrelenting force so continuous and unbroken in its stream. A hawk soared above and for a moment Harry saw the forest below from its eyes, felt as it caught an updraft and soared higher into the sky. He reached out, touching it’s being with his magic and spoke:

 “Fly with me.” His voice was hoarse, and he thought his heart might stutter to a complete stop within his chest as the hawk dove downward in a graceful spiral.

 

~

"Again.” Fea stood next to the stump Harry used to split logs on, waiting for him to catch his breath before setting the dummy to attack him again. She had spelled it to only perform physical attacks, able to use any weapon available to it against Harry.

His tenth birthday had come and gone, and Fea’s present to him had been the beginning of daily physical training. Since he’d touched Old Magic he no longer needed to spend as much time performing his morning meditations. He still practiced for two hours each day, and had instead moved on to learning the language of animals and how to command them.

Harry raised the dagger he had come to enjoy using. He crouched slightly, waiting for the dummy to make its first move. It feinted right before making to attack Harry’s left side, he dodged the blow coming at him before flinging the dagger at its neck. His accuracy had improved over the past few weeks. The blade lodged into the dummy's neck, making it go still mid movement. He looked to Fea, who nodded silently.

He dusted himself off before making his way inside to continue reading _Politics_.

~

Harry sat upon a cushion in their cluttered living room. A circle of quartz pillars surrounded him, cleansing the energies of the room while he meditated. He had begun to go within, having become proficient in seeking the energies outside him. It was second nature to him now. He could sense the auras of objects, had struck up plenty of stilted conversations with the robins at the bird feeder and was beginning to manipulate elements when he had time.

Going within was much more difficult, if you attempted it first. Having a sense of the way magic felt externally made it easier to seek it when Harry had begun to reach inward. However, his magic was unbridled, and was difficult to manipulate in it’s pure form. He had started off by introducing himself, getting to know it, just _feeling_ it. Each person’s magic felt different, had its own unique signature. It was the same for objects, plants, animals, minerals. They all had a distinct feel to them.

Harry had learned that his magic felt like shards of ice. The kind of cold that gripped you and was not easy to warm from. Often, he would come out of his meditative trances with blue lips and purple fingers. But it was worth it when he had cast his first wandless spell, a simple warming charm. That had been four months ago. It was now January and the winter months had seemed to heighten his magic. He shivered as he reached inward, calling to the now familiar cold within him.

He had been learning about levitating charms recently, and he wanted to try using his raw magic to perform one. It was difficult to channel a wizard’s pure magic into a spell without it being volatile or over powered. His arm stung from the frostiness overtaking it as he pushed his magic into his arm, focusing it into only his right arm and nowhere else. His breathing became labored as he did so, working hard not to break his concentration. Harry’s eyes slid open, focusing on one of the quartz crystals in front of him. He reached forward, channeling his magic through his arm and to his fingers. He watched in satisfaction as silvery wisps came from his fingers and connected to the crystal, slowly lifting it from the floor. It floated in midair, at eye level for Harry, steadily before he pulled his magic back. It clattered to the floor, breaking the energy of the circle surrounding him.

 

~

Since Harry had begun practicing wandless magic Fea had begun leaving the cottage frequently on “business.” She didn’t share with Harry what it was she was doing, but he had a few guesses. The summer was fast approaching and with it his eleventh birthday. He’d soon be receiving his Hogwarts letter. He and Fea had both decided he would attend. She had made him read _Hogwarts: A History_ as well as _A True Telling: Hogwart’s Founders_ when he’d been nine. Harry knew that he would at some point need to continue his education, Fea couldn’t be his teacher forever. Though, sometimes he selfishly wished she could.

Hogwarts was an integral part of his plan, he knew it. If he wanted to impart any change on wizarding society it was his first real step in doing so. He’d need the formal education, the credentials, and hopefully any connections he might be able to secure while there.

He sighed, closing his copy of _The Prince_. Fea had stressed the importance of having a ‘well-rounded world view’ when she’d given him the works of several muggle political thinkers. Plato’s _Republic_ had been his favorite in theory. However, _The Prince_ had proven the most practical. The ideas and advice given in it were readily translatable to the real-world for Harry, and he had integrated all that he’d learned from them both into his philosophy.

He began to wander about the cottage, unconsciously moving in the direction of Fea’s study without thinking. He had only gone inside once, when Fea had been gone from their home. He could never kill his curiosity when it took a hold of him. Harry twisted the knob and let the door creak open.

Scrolls were scattered over every surface, some sticking out from between books on the shelves lining the walls. A long wooden table occupied the center of the room, much like in their kitchen. The wall behind the table was dominated by a wall to wall tapestry, woven in hues of emerald and violet. In the top right was a crest, a raven with its head held aloft and a serpent curled around its neck, under it were the words: “House Morrigan.” Harry had learned about the bloodlines of the wizarding world briefly. He knew that this was the Morrigan family tapestry, and his eyes quickly found the face sewn above the name ‘ _Fea Morrigan_ ’. Beside her name was what Harry believed to be Fea’s sister, now long dead, Maeve. He refused to look at the first descendants. His heart pounded in his chest just at the thought of it, and its implications as well.

Fea’s words echoed in his mind as he stared at her name woven so delicately in silver script: _When the time comes you will come to me, and we will greet each other as partners._

Harry had chosen his fate many moons ago on Yule, when red eyes and icy hands had plagued him. He had known then who he wanted to become, what he wanted to _do_. It had taken him two years to build up the courage to accept that _Harry_ was no longer who he was.

“It’s time.” He admitted to the empty room, before rushing away from the woven eyes staring down at him from their perch upon the wall.

 

~

Fea knew she hadn’t been spending as much time with the child as she should have. She regretted the sudden turn of events, but she knew that it was for the best. There had been too much _snooping_ around the woods recently, and any breaches would be detrimental at this stage in the game.

She stepped over a fallen tree, decorated with sprouting mushrooms. She stooped low, whispering to the white capped fungus, in a language only she and the boy could speak. Fea sighed, continuing through the shaded woods. Reinforcing the wards in the forest was painstaking. Whispering to its creatures, soothing the trees and convincing them to do her bidding – it was tiresome. But the protection their sentient magic offered was well worth the trouble.

She ran her hand along the rough, lichen covered bark of a particularly stubborn oak tree. She never forgot where this tree stood, it had been the most resistant to her when she first chose to inhabit these woods so many years ago. She whispered, calming the bristly tree, before asking for its protection.

She made her way deeper and deeper in, having started along the tree line. She had caught sight of the orphanage as she had worked along the edge, and had wondered if the child ever missed it. The thought was quickly dismissed as impossible, she had given him gifts – _her_ gifts. She felt a flutter on her shoulder and looked to see a raven perched there. They were always particularly fond of her. Came with being a Morrigan, she supposed. The dark bird croaked in her ear, letting her know that all was clear, before pecking at one of her curls. She nodded curtly, and the bird took off, disappearing high in the treetops.

She was getting closer to the cottage when she felt something inside her shift. The smallest little movement, but so familiar. She had felt it only twice before, when each of her nieces had been born. A smile played across her lips.

“Curious.” She whispered to the ferns, feeling delight warming her chest. She knew the boy was clever, but this exceeded her expectations. Naming rituals were difficult to perform alone, and quite draining on one’s magic without the proper control.

She quickened her pace, reaching the ring of aspen trees that surrounded their home. She made her way inside, taking in the chaos that surrounded her. All the furniture had been pushed against the walls, leaving a large empty space in the middle. Runes had been drawn in chalk, crystals placed beside them and thrumming with energy. In the middle was an altar bowl, smoking. Next to it lay the crumpled form of the child she had taken in nearly three years ago. There was no mistaking the changes, however subtle they were. Unruly hair had been replaced by silky black curls, so much like her own. They were still sticking out at odd angles, but were tamer than they had previously been. The boy’s jawline was more distinct and severe, just like her sires. She shivered at the thought. The rest remained the same, but she wondered if his eyes would still be that same shining emerald hue.

She quietly stepped into the ritual circle, leaning down to run a hand through curly hair. The body beneath her shifted and let out a whimper. She could sense the weakness in his magic and knew that he would need to sleep for the next few days. She carefully gathered the young wizard in her arms and made the short walk to his bedroom. As she laid him on his bed she saw eyelids flutter open and was met with that wonderful startling hue of green, like precious gems had been plucked from the deepest mine and set into his eyes.

“Child, what have you done?” She whispered, mock innocence coloring her voice. She pulled a blanket up and tucked him into it.

“Sylvain,” He croaked sounding so much like the Raven that had perched on her shoulder. “My name is Sylvain.” He closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

 

~

The two figures were standing in a small clearing, cloaks drawn up tight around them to protect their skin from the chill of dawn. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon and hadn’t yet a chance to warm the humid air. Dew hung from the blades of grass and wet the fabric as Sylvain pulled it tighter around him.

“Are you going to apparate us there?” Sylvain looked to the woman standing stiffly beside him. Fea turned her head just enough that he could see her face before nodding sharply. He knew that was all the answer he would get. The woman had been quiet that morning, which was not an unusual occurrence. But she had seemed so rigid as they’d gotten ready to make their journey. Almost as if she didn’t want to go, wasn’t ready for Sylvain to be introduced to the world she had left behind so long ago.

“I’m excited to see the goblins.” Sylvain blurted, unable to tame his excitement. He had been reading about their society and customs for weeks now, leading up to this. They had begun planning their trip to the bank as well as getting Sylvain’s supplies for the coming year at Hogwarts since the first week of August when he’d gotten his letter.

Fea’s posture relaxed slightly. She forgot sometimes that the boy was still only eleven, despite his maturity and intelligence. “We will only be stopping there briefly, to make the proper arrangements with your vaults.” She reminded him.

Fea had taken care of all the paperwork concerning Sylvain’s ‘birth’ into her line personally at the Ministry. She had insisted he stay at home and allow her to tie up this loose end. The naming ritual he had performed absorbed him into the Morrigan house by magic, but that still meant Fea needed to manage all the legal obligations it required. His vaults were the final detail to be taken care of.

Without saying another word, Fea grasped Sylvain’s arm and pulled him closer to her. The witch turned sharply on her foot and they were gone.

Sylvain could deal with the sudden rush in his ears, and the jerk that he felt in his stomach. However, the feeling of being squeezed left him disoriented when they arrived in the street of Diagon Alley. He swayed but Fea kept a tight grip on his arm preventing him from falling over.

The streets were empty since it was still early in the morning. A few witches and wizards hurriedly made their way here or there, heading to work or early appointments. They cut through an empty alley between two shops and arrived onto the Main Street. A few minutes later and the pair were making their way up the white marble steps and into Gringotts Bank.

Fea strode airily past the long row of goblins with their scales, reaching the head goblins podium quickly.

"Dornuk, please.” She asked, wasting no time on pleasantries. Sylvain was quite shocked at her obvious rudeness, having read that it was customary for sometimes long-winded polite greetings to be made amongst goblins. Lots of hoping ‘coffers were bountiful’ and ‘ever flowing gold.’

To Sylvain's surprise the goblin seemed unaffected by Fea’s shortness, and quickly excused himself to retrieve the goblin in question with a stiff, “Of course, Madame Morrigan.”

Dornuk arrived and they were brought to a private office. The goblin eyed Sylvain curiously, before addressing Fea.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Madame Morrigan? It has been quite some time since I have seen you for business in the bank.” Dornuk was quite casual in his greeting, making Sylvain believe he had been managing the Morrigan accounts for some time. He supposed it shouldn’t be surprising that she was offered such deference from the normally clipped goblin race. Fea’s line was, well, ancient. And not in the noble and ancient ‘Black’ sense. It was unfathomably old.

“I am here to inquire to the current financial standing of my child.” She gestured to Sylvain at this. “He has recently been absorbed both magically and legally into my line.” Fea folded her hands in her lap, back remaining straight and head held aloft. Sylvain knew that she was putting on airs since they were in public. The woman was normally quite composed, but never this rigid.

“Ah, I see.” Dornuk smiled at Sylvain from his perch behind an ornately carved desk. “Does your ward happen to have a name?” The goblin smirked at the two of them, obviously enjoying his moment of wittiness.

Fea gave him a pointed look before Sylvain spoke up, “Sylvain Morrigan, formerly one Harry James Potter.” He didn’t miss the way the smirk disappeared and the wrinkles on the goblins face went suddenly slack.

“I _see_.” He repeated yet again, this time appraising Sylvain quietly. “You have been missing for quite some time, Mr. Potter. Many presumed you to be dead.” Dornuk leaned forward, intrigued by the turn of events.

“We are not here to discuss anything more than my wards financial standing.” Fea snipped, leveling the goblin with a look that had Dornuk sitting back in his chair.

“As you wish.” The goblin pulled a piece of parchment and a pin from within his desk, sliding it over to the two. “I will need to verify the identity of your ward before we may continue.”

Sylvain took the pin and pricked the end of his finger, letting a single drop fall onto the paper before him. Words began to fan out from where the blood had landed, but the goblin quickly snatched it up before Sylvain could read any of the titles that were spelled out.

“Mr. Morrigan is in possession of a trust fund vault in the Potter’s names, as well as retaining his Heirship to the line. He will need the Potter key to access this vault.” Dornuk began, reading from the parchment. “As well as the Heirship to the Peverll line and it’s vaults.” He finished.

“Where is the Potter vault key?” Fea eyed the goblin with narrowed eyes, her fingers drumming on the arms of her chair. “As it is not in the possession of my ward.” Sylvain nearly rolled his eyes at the use of the term ‘ward.’ It was just like ‘child’, she never seemed to call him by his name.

Dornuk returned her gaze shrewdly, aiming to appear unaffected by the sudden scrutiny of the witch but just falling short.

“Albus Dumbledore is holding the Potter key, for safekeeping.” Fea’s eyes narrowed impossibly further at the mention of the Wizards name. Dornuk was looking more uncomfortable by the second.

“Remove it from him.” She hissed. Sylvain shivered at the sound, surprised by the venom in her words. He knew Fea was powerful, and quite intimidating. But seeing her in action was both thrilling and frightening at once. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, mimicking the goblin in front of them. The only response Fea received from Dornuk was a swift nod of his sparsely haired head.

“I should like the Peverell vault and main Potter vault to remain as they are. However, the gold within the trust fund will be transferred to one under the Morrigan name and the Potter one dissolved. I would like a list of properties and holdings under both names sent to me.” Fea swept her cloak up, rising from her seat.

She stared down at the goblin, her eyes penetrating his. Sylvain looked on curiously. The two did not speak or move, just gazed at each other intently. He doubted Fea was using legilimency on the goblin, he wasn’t even sure if such magic would work. Did she have a special connection to him through Old Magic? It effected most creatures, including some magical. He didn’t know if that included goblins however.

They quickly broke eye contact, Dornuk looking shaken. He avoided looking anywhere in Sylvain's direction and busied himself with shuffling some scrolls about on his desk. Odd.

“I will expect to hear from you in a timely manner. Good day to you, Dornuk.” Fea did not wait for the goblins reply before quickly exciting the office. Sylvain stood, giving a slight bow to the goblin before following the witch.

Sylvain fell in step beside her, watching her from the corner of his eye as they made their way out of the bank. The streets outside had filled up with people and Sylvain couldn’t help but smile at the bustle. Diagon Alley was everything he had imagined when reading about it. It thrummed with magic and he relished in the feeling around him. It was distinct in its difference from the Old Magic he felt in things that had life – like plants and animals. The stone of the buildings were laced with delicate threads, wards that had been expertly constructed. It was much more focused and refined than the raw power he felt in the forest.

"Who is Albus Dumbledore?” The name had been itching in the back of his mind. They headed through the crowd toward Flourish and Botts. Sylvain didn’t miss the way Fea’s hands fisted in her cloak.

“The Headmaster at Hogwarts. You will be meeting him this September.” She held open the door for him as they made their way inside.

They spent the rest of their day shopping. Sylvain didn’t bring up the Hogwarts Headmaster again, despite the questions that were squirming around beneath his skin. They purchased his books as well as his quills and parchment. Fea had laughed at the prospect of buying potions materials.

“Everything you need you may find at home or in the woods. You will take my cauldron with you.” She had muttered, pushing him past Slug and Jiggers. Sylvain nearly protested before deciding against it. Fea had been tense all day and he wasn’t looking to make her mood any worse.  They made their way to Madame Malkins to have Sylvain fitted for his school robes, much to the young wizard’s annoyance. Fea had made most of his clothes for him, or mail ordered what she couldn’t sew herself. The idea of a stranger wrapping measuring tape about him, prodding him as he stood on a stool, unsettled him.

There was someone else being measured as they entered the shop, so they waited to be helped. Fea sat in one of the waiting chairs as Sylvain climbed up on the stool and watched the charmed tapes whiz about him, taking in his measurements. The blond boy next to him smirked at Sylvain's obvious discomfort.

“First time being fitted?” He asked, an imperious look on his face. Sylvain looked from the corner of his eye, bristling at the implication.

“Unfortunately, no.” Sylvain murmured, remembering Fea’s impatience as he had batted her hands away whenever they went through this at home. The blond seemed to cool off at his response and cleared his expression of the thinly veiled disdain.

“Draco Malfoy.” He said, awaiting Sylvain’s response. It was obvious to Sylvain, by the carefully crafted look of disinterest on the others face, that he was quite interested to know what his surname was. Blood purists were exasperating. Fea was flipping the pages of a magazine slowly but Sylvain knew she was listening to the conversation.

“Sylvain Morrigan.” He shot back finally, making Malfoy wait for his answer. He rather enjoyed the way the blonde shifted ever so slightly back and forth in impatience. What was more gratifying however, was the way his eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead at hearing his name.

“Is that so?” Draco couldn't resist the smile that was fighting its way onto his face. The blonde carefully snuck a glance at Fea, his curiosity piqued.

“Indeed.” Sylvain said simply. Madam Malkin had now hung a long black robe over him and was pinning it in the proper places according to her measurements. He cringed slightly as she pricked him with a pin accidentally.

Draco forged on, “I had thought that line died out long ago.” He appraised Sylvain from head to toe, before primly facing forward again, “Father says it’s likely the oldest line in our world.” This was spoken softer, and with a little bit of awe. Sylvain watched as Fea smirked from her spot in the waiting area. How droll this whole affair had become.

“Do you know what House you’ll be sorted into? I suppose no one really knows until the time comes but I’ll certainly be in Slytherin.” Draco blathered, forgetting himself for a moment in face of meeting someone so obviously _exciting_. The Morrigan’s hadn’t been seen nor heard from in hundreds of years! And here he was, chatting with them in a robe shop!

“As you’ve said,” Sylvain watched as Madame Malkin carefully finished pinning the robe and began making the final adjustments with her wand. “One never truly knows until the moment comes.” He finished, stepping down from the stool as Madame Malkin spelled the measured robe off him and somewhere to be sewn into his school robes. Fea paid and they made their way to exit. As they were going Sylvain turned to the young Malfoy.

“See you at Hogwarts Malfoy?” He smoothed down the front of his robes absent mindedly, his face remaining impassive.

 “Yes, see you there.” The blonde wizard responded, still looking a little stunned. “Please, call me Draco.” He managed to get out.

"As you wish." Sylvain turned quickly, taking Fea’s arm and exiting the shop. Draco watched them go from the window, anxiously awaiting his Father’s return.

The two Morrigan's made their way to a shabby stone building, with a façade that was crumbling in parts. Above the entryway was a sign reading ‘ _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C_ ’. Oddly enough, Fea seemed to find this amusing as she read it, and was stifling a chuckle as she held the door open for Sylvain.

The bell on the door chimed happily and Sylvain was assaulted with dust as he entered the shop. Fea did not seat herself this time, remaining standing as they waited for the wandmaker to appear.

“Good afternoon.” A soft voice called from the entryway to a long corridor lined with boxes. Sylvain hadn’t heard the man approach and twitched a little at the sudden intrusion. He had grown accustomed to Fea sneaking up on him at home, however having it happen with someone else unnerved him. The woman to his left however seemed unfazed, staring at the weathered face opposite them.

“Good afternoon, Ollivander.” The curly haired witch greeted, her voice measured as she took a step forward. She trailed an elegant finger along the top of the shop counter, examining its dust darkened tip. Her long sapphire dress swished as she turned toward the old man, expectantly.

Sylvain watched him stare at Fea, his silvery eyes unblinking. They stayed like this, for moments too long, much like how her and the goblin had at the bank. How strange, Ollivander seemed like a regular wizard, if a bit odd. But certainly not a goblin? Perhaps others were just affected by Fea’s presence? Her magic could be overwhelming at times, particularly to those not used to it like Sylvain was.

Ollivander remained unmoving as he finally spoke, “Fea Morrigan, I do not believe I have had the pleasure of selling you a wand.” He took a small, quiet step forward. Sylvain had not been so much as glanced at throughout the course of this interaction.

“I do believe it was before your family's time, unfortunately.” She murmured, leveling the white-haired man with a penetrating look. Sylvain balked slightly at that, looking at Fea in disbelief. The sign outside said 382 B.C! Had that been why she’d found it so amusing or was she only joking with the man? Fea had hardly ever told a ‘joke’ since Sylvain had known her, though.

“May I?” Ollivander presented his hand to her, palm facing up. He did not reach forward or impose, but the question hung in the air like static. Sylvain’s skin prickled as Fea’s eyes darkened.

“You may not,” She hissed, jerking her head in Sylvain’s direction. “We are here for the child, he needs a wand.” Her words were final, and Ollivander returned his hand to his side slowly. He gave Fea one last searching look before turning his attention to Sylvain. The old man scrutinized him, just as Draco had done only an hour ago. He knew he would have to become accustomed to it, as it was only bound to become worse as time went on. Fea’s family name carried a burgeoning weight.

“Ah, I see. And who might this be?” Ollivander waved his hand and a magical tape measure appeared. Sylvain sighed deeply at the sight of it. Not again.

“My name is Sylvain.” He said quietly, holding out his right arm to begin the process. The tape measure whirred about him, taking note of his various lengths.

“Sylvain,” Ollivander tested, his eyes glazing over for a moment. They cleared quickly, and he waved his hand once more. The tape measure crumpled to the floor. As soon as it did, wrinkled fingers began nimbly plucking box after box down from the shelves. Sylvain had gone through nearly ten wands, his anxiety increasing with each failure. Though, despite Sylvain’s nerves the wand maker seemed undeterred, becoming more frenzied as he pulled five more boxes down from a particularly high shelf for him to try. Sylvain swished them all through the air, one by one, but nothing happened.

Ollivander’s brows had furrowed at this, finally reaching a point of confusion. He rubbed at his chin in thought as he looked upon Sylvain’s hand.

“Interesting,” He murmured, likely to himself but Sylvain could hear him just fine. “I had thought...” The old wizard shuffled to the very end of the long hall, stooping down low to pull a box off the bottom shelf. He quickly shuffled back to the young boy, handing him the wand delicately.

“Holly, eleven inches, Phoenix feather, nice and supple. Go on, give it a try.” He muttered, gesturing toward Sylvain jerkily.

He felt his hand tingle where it touched the wand, but nothing more. His stomach flopped oddly as he raised the wand in the air and brought it down, like he would chopping wood. A loud boom resounded through the shop, and the wand in his hand burst into bright green flames. Sylvain quickly dropped it to the floor, watching as the wood crumbled and withered from the heat. His heart began to pound, looking at Ollivander. He expected to see indignation at one of his wands being destroyed so completely, but instead he looked surprised. Had the old man been expecting something else to happen?

“Curious,” He muttered again. Ollivander stared at the ashen remnants on the floor of his shop. “Curious indeed.” He huffed lightly, dust scattering into the air. It seemed the man was truly confused, but still quite determined to find the right fit for Sylvain. He stared at the boy for a long while, contemplating his next wand choice deeply. The young wizard fidgeted where he stood, unnerved. Fea had remained silent from where she stood, her sparkling eyes fixated on the pair.

Ollivander had made up his mind, reaching for a box quite close to him. He again gently handed the wand to Sylvain, but with less reverence than the last one.

“Aspen, eleven and a half inches, dragon heartstring. Unyielding.” His eyes seemed darker as he handed the wand to Sylvain, his face having gone ashen. “Go on.” Was he afraid this wand might go up in flames as well?

Sylvain felt warmth wash through him. He hadn’t even raised the wand an inch before sparks shot out of the end, lighting the room in dancing green light. A smile took over Sylvain’s face, his cheeks dimpling. He flicked his wrist, sending the sparks to dance about Fea’s head. The woman smiled, pleased with him, before waving her hand and dispelling them from the room.

Ollivander looked between the two of them hesitantly, “A truly remarkable match.” He concluded before replacing the wand in its box and wrapping it up in brown paper. They paid quickly, leaving the shop after saying goodbye.

The wandmaker remained unusually quiet as he watched them depart into the Alley.

 

~

“Do you have any spell books I can take along with me?” Sylvain neatly folded one of his school robes and tucked it into his open trunk. He had almost finished packing and Fea had not left his side while he had made his preparations.

“A few.” She said simply, watching him gather his books and place them into one of the empty compartments. “They would require concealment and a level of discretion, however.”

Sylvain shot her a heatless glare over the lid of his trunk as he rummaged through his desk in search of his notebooks. He often wrote down his thoughts and ideas in them, as well as notes on any books he’d been reading in his free time.

"I've nearly finished _A Standard Book of Spells_.” He found what he had been looking for and made his way back to packing. “I’m sure Hogwarts library is nothing to be laughed at, but it may be _lacking_ in certain subjects.” He flipped the lid closed with finality, clicking the fastenings shut. He ran a hand over the Morrigan insignia inlaid on the top in silver.

“I will send them to you after you have settled in.” She moved toward Sylvain, the shadows of his room clinging to her as always. He feared one day she might disappear into them, never to return. Fea placed a hand over his, her long fingers curling under his, squeezing. Things had felt different between them since they’d returned from their trip to Diagon Alley. Fea was not the warmest of caretakers, but she was intelligent and welcoming to him. She never pressed too hard or pushed him in one direction or another. Fea dealt in facts, in realities, and she presented them in their sometimes cruel worth for his evaluation. But it was always Sylvain’s decision what he did with that information. He always had a choice with her.

“I will miss you.” She whispered, her sapphire eyes glinting in the light. Sylvain felt his chest tighten at the small display. It was difficult for either of them to feel vulnerable, even around each other.

“Only because now you’ll have to chop your own wood.” He turned his hand palm side up, returning her grasp. Sylvain didn’t want to part on a bad note. “I’ll write you as often as I can.” It was the only comfort he could give her.

“I want to tell you something,” Her voice had dropped an octave as the words tumbled from her lips. Sylvain’s bedroom felt warmer than it had before, excitement banging around in his chest. Fea had already shared her biggest secret with him, what more could there be?

“Everything that I have given you, the Old Ways,” She reached her free hand up to cup the side of his face. “They come with a price.” The hold she had on his hand felt too tight now, but Sylvain tried to remain calm. A price?

“It is a burden, child. One I have had to bear alone for too long.” Fea trailed a finger down his cheek, the nail digging a pink path as it went. “Now that I have found you, we may share that heavy weight together.” She caught his green eyes with her own sapphire ones, the pupils had nearly overtaken their color turning her gaze black.

“And what, exactly, does this entail?” Sylvain’s breath hitched a little in his throat, surprised he could even get the words out to begin with. Fea’s magic was clouding the room like thick mist, laboring his breath. Sylvain’s magic responded, reaching out to mix with hers in a heady haze surrounding them.

“The world, our world, cannot remain as it is.” Her voice was so soft and raspy Sylvain could barely hear it over the magic swimming in his ears. “You and I will see to it.” Their eyes locked again, and Sylvain felt a rush of adrenaline at the prospect. _A boy who knew he would do something great._

"What would you have me do?" He choked out, green eyes swimming as they darted from Fea’s gaze to the hand still clutching his own.

"For now," She drawled, releasing her hold on the boy. The magic dissipated from the room slowly, still clinging to the air desperately. Sylvain shivered. “Position yourself well at school. Learn. Grow.” She wandered idly back to her spot by the window, a hidden message in her words – become _powerful_.

“And?” Sylvain knew that wouldn’t be all. He had known in his heart that all the training he received hadn’t only been for his benefit. There was more. There was always more.

“There is a man,” She placed a slender palm against the cool glass of Sylvain’s window. “Tom Riddle.” The name made his heart stutter in his chest. Who?

She turned to look over her shoulder, “Learn his secrets.”

 


	4. Obsidian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this at the airport so I apologize if I missed any typos or errors! Also, I'm sorry I haven't had time to reply to all the comments and questions, but I appreciate all of the support none the less! Y'all are great :)

Rain speckled the window of Sylvain’s compartment as the Hogwarts Express departed from King’s Cross station. An empty feeling inside his chest threatened to crawl its way in as he watched Fea’s retreat through the crowd that had formed. Sylvain wasn’t ready to admit that he would miss the woman he had come to admire and respect.

Droplets began to fall more heavily as they left behind the clustered buildings of London and into the countryside. Thunder boomed above him, and Sylvain couldn’t help but wonder if his sour mood was the cause of it.

Incidentally, the book in his lap was about just that – elemental manipulation. He had bothered Fea for hours more after initially asking her for books to take with him before she finally cracked and had given him this. It was another of her handwritten treatises. He looked down at the section he’d opened to – it was outlining the basic techniques to manipulate fire and how to produce it. Sylvain rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window, willing his mind to focus and forget the forest he was leaving behind.

He knew there would be plenty to discover and learn within the castle itself, but the Forbidden Forest is what excited Sylvain. He had little doubt he’d be able to sneak out at night to venture inside. Still, nothing could compare to the forest he’d grown up in. It would forever be his home.

Slyvain sighed, settling in to continue his reading when the compartment door slid open. Draco Malfoy stepped inside, but didn’t immediately sit, surprising Sylvain. Apparently, the young boy had some manners.

“Sylvain, what a pleasant surprise.” Draco inclined his head at the seated wizard, a smirk firmly fixed on his face. Did the boy have any expression besides smugness or disdain? Sylvain held back a huff at the intrusion, knowing that he would have time to continue reading later helped. Besides, Malfoy could prove an interesting conversation partner if he lived up to the famed Malfoy wit. Beyond that, Draco might be useful, if for nothing other than gathering information.

“Likewise,” Sylvain gestured to the empty bench across from him lazily. “Please sit.” He made quick work of closing the book and stowing it away in his bag, away from any curious eyes.

Sylvain couldn’t help but feel unimpressed when he noted Draco’s overtly expensive robes. Having school robes made in such a fine and rich material was, to him, a bit pretentious. And certainly unnecessary. Though, the level of wealth the Malfoy’s enjoyed might be cause, he had hoped perhaps they might be a tad more discreet. Hopefully Draco hadn’t let all that money go to his head.

“Are you excited to be going to Hogwarts?” He didn’t know what else to ask the boy. Sylvain didn’t know much about Draco personally. Having only just met him a few weeks ago he could hardly ask him anything beyond casual conversation. Despite his father’s position in the ministry he rather doubted Draco would know as much about politics as he did.

“Quite.” The word was subdued. Draco didn’t want to appear childish in front of Sylvain by being excited. “Though, with how much I’ve heard from father and mother, it feels as though I’ve already _been_.” He half-rolled his eyes, appearing to be exasperated.

“Oh, is that so? Both of your parents attended?” Sylvain tried hard to sound interested, watching the boy across from him carefully. Lightning split across the sky outside their train car, drawing the blonde’s eye away from Sylvain’s momentarily.

“Yes, they both attended. Though they were in different years.” Draco flicked non-existent lint from his robes as he spoke, “Father wanted me to attend Durmstrang, but mother insisted I go to Hogwarts.” He seemed rather pleased by this, despite Durmstrang aligning more with his family’s preferences.

Sylvain could feel his face pinching in exasperation. Was the boy always this generous with information? He felt inclined to write Lucius Malfoy himself to inform him of his son’s indiscretion. Unless, Draco was only behaving this way to impress Sylvain? He couldn’t decide which option was worse.

“What about your parents, did they attend?” Draco drawled, not wanting to move the conversation away from himself. Sylvain restrained the laughter bubbling in his chest.

“Something like that.” He replied. Fea hadn’t said much when asked about her experience with Hogwarts, other than muttering strangely to herself ‘ _What a cumbersome construction, unbelievable!_ ’ followed by a lot of harshly whispered ‘ _Rubbish! What rubbish!_ ” He could only assume his mentor had attended, or at least witnessed it’s founding since he was still clueless as to how old the woman was.

“Something like that? What house were they sorted to?” Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly at Sylvain’s strange answer, but otherwise his expression remained neutral. Sylvain knew the boy was trying to figure out where he himself might be sorted based off Fea, remembering their conversation in the robe shop not that long ago. Now that is some real rubbish. Hogwarts houses and the logic that led to their formation still escaped him. Dividing children based off personality alone seemed dangerous, and likely to breed stereotyping.

He imagined what house Fea might be in. In all honesty it was difficult to say. She was certainly too shrewd and calm to be a Gryffindor. Years of experience likely taught her that measuring a situation before jumping in was always the best course to take. She was unyielding in her loyalty to True Magic and the Old Ways, and had shown she was willing to fight on ‘their’ behalf. Though beyond that she seemed loyal to – herself? That seemed about right. Though Sylvain knew she cared for him more than any else.

Draco was looking at him expectantly so he went with what came first to mind, “My mother was sorted to Ravenclaw. Am I correct in assuming yours were Slytherins?”

“Yes, they were. Your mother, was that the woman you were with in Diagon Alley?” Draco leaned forward in his seat so slightly it might have gone unnoticed by another, but Sylvain was carefully observing. The boy gave away his interest easily. Draco likely told his Father of the meeting between the two of them. Perhaps he’d encouraged his son to seek him out. Sylvain gave a single terse nod in response.

“I must say,” Draco leaned back in his seat after realizing he’d slowly drifted even further forward, “I was rather _pleased_ to learn that the Morrigan line had continued on.” The blonde’s stormy eyes were alight with excitement. The little snake was trying to dance.

While the urge to laugh at what sounded more like something he imagined Draco’s father might say was strong, the shudder that he suppressed was much stronger. Sylvain remembered that day, at Draco’s implication, the sneer on his face at what he thought to be another filthy mud blood. Sylvain held no love for muggles and their seemingly biological predisposition for paranoia and destruction. He knew that their endless warfare and toxic weaponry were slowly beginning to chip away at True Magic. Sylvain detested them for it, despite their cluelessness in all of it. Wizards were no better. What Sylvain disliked more was ignorance. Draco’s hatred didn’t stem from any logic. Dislike for anything muggle had been passed down to him from Lucius, a hatred many generations strong. He couldn’t stomach people who didn’t think for themselves. However, Sylvain knew Draco would be a friend he could use in the future. That didn’t mean he had to hold his tongue though.

“Draco, please, speak freely. I think we both know what you meant to say.” Sylvain smiled, showing his white teeth. Draco quirked an eyebrow, expression lazy. Sylvain reached out with his magic, flooding their tiny compartment with it. He still had difficulty controlling his core in this state, but he had gotten good enough to manifest it as a tangible aura. Sylvain knew some wizards and witches exuded an aura naturally, without having to try. Fea was the only magical being he had experienced so far who he felt power coming from naturally. Anyone else Sylvain had to seek out their magic with intention, in the same way he communicated with True Magic. The blonde remained impassive, which Sylvain found to be quite remarkable. Though he imagined Draco had likely found himself around powerful and impressive wizards and witches from a young age, more accustomed to feeling raw magic in this state.

Since it was obvious the other boy was refusing to rise to Sylvain’s bait he continued, “What you were truly _pleased_ with was my pure blood.” Sylvain pulled his magic back, feeling his head getting light from the exertion. He still didn’t have complete control. This would improve once he started manipulating the sentient magic around him.

Draco’s cheeks were dusted with rose, from embarrassment or indignation Sylvain wasn’t sure. The blonde flipped a lock of hair from his eyes, brushing off his emotions carefully. He knew Draco was feeling insecure at being exposed, though Sylvain knew the boy likely flaunted his distaste for impure blood. He wanted Draco to know that he had the upper hand, not the other way around.

“Wouldn’t you be?” The Malfoy heir hissed, his nose scrunching up in disgust. “Pleased, that is?” His tone was still biting, edging on a whisper. Sylvain contemplated whether he wanted to continue this charade. Toying with Draco was fun, but likely not worth it in the long haul.

“Pleased? Perhaps,” Sylvain feigned contemplation, resting his chin in his palm. “I detest muggles. But muggleborns are creatures of magic, like you and me. I cannot dislike them in the same way.” Silence followed his declaration. Draco’s eyes were narrowed critically at him. Sylvain was waiting for the steam to begin rising from his head at the effort. The Malfoy was likely sizing up the weight of Slyvain’s declaration, trying to determine whether he was sympathetic to muggles or purebloods.

Sylvain decided to save Draco the effort by elaborating, “Your dislike for muggles and their sometimes-magical spawn is not rooted in substance. You hate them because your family hates them.” He hissed, watching the blonde’s eyes narrow impossibly further, his arms going taught by his sides.

“That isn’t true!” Draco bit back harshly, icy blue eyes piercing vibrant green. Draco caught himself before he made any further condemnations, realizing he might not be in ‘polite’ company and not willing to implicate himself.

“Is it not?” Sylvain cocked his head at the other boy, breaking eye contact to stare out at the blurry trees they zipped past. “My dislike for idiocy far outweighs my dislike for muggles and mud bloods. Think for yourself. If you come to the same conclusion, I hold nothing against you.” Draco seemed to relax slightly at him saying ‘mudblood’ and Sylvain again found himself resisting the urge to shudder in distaste. Had he not heard anything? Sylvain knew he couldn’t push further without revealing more about his own views, however. Not that what he believed was necessarily incompatible with what he assumed to be Draco’s stance, he just felt more inclined to hold his hand close before making any moves. The blonde needed to prove his usefulness, his worth, before Sylvain gave him anything.

He looked from the rain speckled window to his compartment companion, relishing the satisfaction that took hold of him. Draco’s eyes were downcast in contemplation over Sylvain’s obvious displeasure. Either it had clicked that he wasn’t a ‘blood-traitor’ and simply found Draco’s lack of independence abhorring or he was still hung up and trying to ‘figure him out.’ He went with the former when Draco’s face carefully slid back into what he was beginning to think of as his characteristic smug look.

“Well, in any case, I was pleased.” Draco sniffed, recovering quickly. “As was my father.” Sylvain felt his lips tugging upward, the only sign he was amused. He had suspicions that Draco was trying to impress him. After being subject to Sylvain’s disapproval, the other boy was likely to attempt to regain control. He wondered where Draco might take this and felt a thrill run up his spine at the prospect of easing information out of the blonde. He had to admit, while Draco easily fell prey to his own petty ambitions, he was masterful in concealing his emotions. He had slipped, but recovered gracefully. Perhaps the boy wasn’t a complete dunderhead.

“Oh, was he?” Sylvain pretended to pick at his nails, not meeting Draco’s gaze. His lips were pursed in disinterest at the other’s admission. Sylvain said nothing more, waiting for Draco to rise to the bait. The huff the Malfoy heir let out was quiet, but the annoyance of it bled through.

“Yes, quite.” Draco’s tone was clipped. Sylvain looked up, quirking an eyebrow. Draco seemed to bristle at the unvoiced question, “He is, after all, Secretary Riddle’s top aide.” Sylvain swore he saw Draco puff up a little at the admission. The raven-haired boy’s interest was piqued, tapping his knee lightly in excitement. Sylvain felt his magic respond to his emotions, rolling around inside him like building thunder.

“Secretary Riddle?” Sylvain couldn’t help himself, or the curious tone that colored his voice. He hadn’t had time to seek out much information about the man after Fea’s suggestion, too focused on beginning his elemental manipulation and practicing controlling his magical core. His stomach churned, he imagined his eyes were shining bright with hunger.

Draco seemed satisfied with Sylvain’s attention, despite it not being directed at himself, “Yes, they are quite close.” Draco smirked in between his words. “He often visits the Manor to confer with my father over political matters.”

“How fascinating.” Sylvain mused, the amused smile from earlier growing, showing his teeth insidiously. Draco looked hesitant but still retained an air of satisfaction. The Morrigan heir looked out the window once again, feeling his pensive mood from before vanishing like smoke. He would need to keep Draco in his pocket, certainly.

~

The light from the castle windows shimmered across the surface of the Black Lake, casting odd shadows across the other student’s faces. Sylvain remained quiet by Draco’s side as they waited to board a boat that would take them to the school. He watched the other student’s carefully, their excited faces drawn up in smiles. A giant man with a grisly beard named Hagrid corralled students into groups, attempting to get them into boats and on their way.

“Blaise!” Draco’s voice broke through the crowd around them as he gestured to two approaching boys. One of them looked decidedly older, though Sylvain assumed he was in their year despite the hard lines of his jaw. He had dark hair and equally dark eyes, framed by long lashes and a coppery brown face.

“Draco, nice to see you.” The boy flashed a small smile at the blonde before turning toward Slyvain. “Blaise Zabini, and this is Theodore Nott.” He motioned to the tall and lanky looking boy beside him. Nott’s face seemed to be pinched in a permanent sour expression, mousy brown hair falling into his eyes.

“Sylvain Morrigan, a pleasure to meet you.” He inclined his head and watched amusement flash in Zabini’s eyes. He made no comment about Sylvain’s surname, but interest painted his expression.

“It is no small wonder I would find you in Draco’s company,” Blaise moved closer to the boats as they prepared to board, “He seems to collect interesting witches and wizards.”

Draco huffed, but didn’t bite back as they climbed into their boats and departed across the lake. The lamp that hung from the bow swung lazily back and forth, illuminating the mist that clung to the surface of the dark water beneath. Sylvain resisted the urge to reach a hand out and skim his fingers along the surface. He mostly tuned out his acquaintance conversation’s, though kept his ears open for anything interesting. The edge of the forbidden forest peeked out from behind the castle, barely visible in the darkened sky. The light of the moon illuminated the tall and looming trees and Sylvain felt a rush run through him at what laid beyond. The magic of the castle called out to him, he could sense it around him, like a thick cloud. Something deep inside him thrummed at its touch, like he was returning to some long-forgotten memory.

“Father told me that they’ve added Dueling to the classes this year but they’ve yet to announce who will be teaching it,” Draco commented dryly. Slyvain almost dismissed the thread of conversation but perked up immediately when he added, “Apparently, it was Secretary Riddle’s support that provided the necessary push to get the Board of Governor’s to agree.” Draco rolled his shoulders dismissively.

“Does Secretary Riddle often concern himself with the Board’s affairs?” Sylvain was curious to know who had proposed to curriculum change, having a few guesses as to who the originator might have been.

“Secretary Riddle has rarely concerned himself with putting favor behind any bill, measure, or policy change since he was given his position ten years ago.” Blaise added, eyes unblinking as he stared at Sylvain. So clearly Zabini had more of an interest in politics than Draco. He would have to see how far that interest ran. Sylvain made to reply but was cut off by Malfoy before he could question Zabini further.

“What does it matter what Secretary Riddle does and doesn’t do?” Draco sniped, clearly annoyed with Sylvain’s interest in Blaise’s thoughts. Sylvain narrowed his eyes at Draco, green eyes like stone. Draco pursed his lips, a sneer making it’s way onto his face at Slyvain’s displeasure.

“I hear there's a secret library hidden in Ravenclaw tower, with rare books from around the world.” Zabini remarked, effectively changing the subject and cutting the budding tension, and Slyvain again found his attention wavering. Why was Riddle making a move now? If what Blaise said was true, the politician seemed fine maintaining the status quo in order to remain in office. Why put one’s self in the political arena over something like a Dueling course at Hogwarts? He tucked the odd bit of information away to think on later, as their boat reached the lake’s shore.

They were ushered into the Great Hall by a man with billowing black robes and a hooked nose. He was sure others thought the man, Professor Snape he had said, resembled a winged bat but Sylvain found him fascinating. The magic surrounding the man practically sang, like the high trill of a diving bird. His green eyes followed the back of his cloak closely as he pushed the two great wooden doors open to reveal the hall. Twinkling stars in a dark night sky hung above them, as they formed rows in front of a weathered looking woman with an emerald green hat and matching robes.

“Please, form two straight lines!” She tutted before introducing herself as Professor McGonagall. “Please come forward when I call your name for sorting.” She instructed. A lumpy gray hat sat on a stool next to her, which promptly broke out into song when she had finished speaking. Slyvain prided himself on his calmness, little seemed to startle him, so he would never admit that he had jumped a little as the hat began to bellow loudly. Soon students were being called forward, and the hesitance that had pervaded their small group began to fade as more and more first years made their way toward their house tables.

Sylvain couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him when the hat yelled out “Slytherin!” before even touching Draco’s head. The blonde shot him a smug smile before taking his place next to Zabini and Nott.

“Sylvain Morrigan!” McGonogal called out. If there was surprise in her voice she hid it well. How long will it take for the novelty of his family name to wear off? He made his way toward the hat, picking up the frayed edge with care. Magic seemed to be woven into it’s very fabric, tingling his fingers as he placed it upon his head.

‘ _Hello_ ,’ Sylvain began. He always liked to have the upper hand, even with talking magic hats. ‘ _How do you do?_ ’ He swore the hat snorted.

‘ _Well, well, a Morrigan I see,_ ’ Sylvain rolled his eyes beneath the brim of the hat. The hat too? ‘ _It’s been a long time since your family has been through these hallowed halls, long indeed. But you aren’t all you appear to be now are you Mr. Morrigan?_ ’ Sylvain assumed the question was rhetorical when the hat continued. ‘ _A mystery even to yourself, I would wager. Your mind is prodigious, but you seem to believe you’re burdened with great purpose. Tricky, yes, tricky indeed._ ’

‘ _Aren’t you supposed to be an expert in these things? Tricky indeed? I’m beginning to question your authority._ ’ Sylvain couldn’t help the way his fingers drummed impatiently. His irritation with the entire sorting practice edged through, and he fought to stamp it down.

‘ _Impatient are we? Perhaps you’d do well in Gryffindor with that tongue._ ’ The hat tsked and Sylvain’s palms suddenly felt sweaty at the thought. Being in Gryffindor would make achieving his goals much more difficult.

‘ _I’d like to think my wit is more becoming of a Ravenclaw._ ’ He suggested, becoming uncomfortably aware of the faces now staring at him curiously as the conversation continued on. Getting stuck in a hat stall would be unpleasant.

‘ _Ah yes, wit beyond measure and all that. Your dreams are too big to have you tinkering away in the dark, Mr. Morrigan. I think you’ll be..’_

“Slytherin!” The hat shouted and Slyvain cringed at the noise, but felt relief wash over him. Not at the sorting, though it was quite beneficial, but at the feeling of the hats presence leaving his mind. His sorting was met with subdued applause as he took a seat beside Draco.

“That took unnervingly long.” Zabini commented, eyeing Sylvain again with open curiosity.

“Yes well, great debates can never be rushed.” Sylvain took stock of the others seated at his table, nodding politely to a few upperclassmen who met his gaze.

“You spoke with the hat?” Draco hissed.

“Yes, well we don't all have the fortune of being sorted mid-air.” He shot back, listening as the other first years were promptly sorted. Draco flushed lightly and seemed ready to make a hasty come back when their conversation was silenced by the booming voice of the Headmaster.

  
He stood in front of his podium, long powdery blue robes shimmering in the light. Were those sparkles? Sylvain scoffed under his breath, but inside his chest tightened as Dumbledore made introductions and began his speech. He kept it brief, but Slyvain didn’t seem to notice the warnings about the forest and so on, hardly paying mind to the introduction of their new Dueling professor Evan Rosier. His magic reached out and if he hadn’t prepared himself he imagined he might have fainted at the overwhelming sensation. Dumbledore’s magic was like rain. Not the kind that pelted you relentlessly, but the misty and obscuring kind. The kind of rain you might lose yourself in, only for it to part and reveal shimmering light. It was cold and wet, and enthralling. Sylvain’s throat tightened. He wasn't fooled by those twinkling blue eyes, hidden cheerfully behind half-moon glasses, this man was a force to be reckoned with.

He had so much to write Fea about, he could hardly wait to take quill to parchment.


	5. Moonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait on this! I was experiencing what seemed to be an unending amount of work drama and the stress of it left me feeling drained. I have only proofread this a few times through so I apologize for any errors, I wanted to get it up as soon as I could.
> 
> Note the minor time skip at the beginning, we are now in Slyvain's second year. Enjoy!

The November air that came down from the mountainside stung Sylvain’s cheeks. He tilted back his head, breathing in deep. The furthest edge of the Black Lake had been his only solace lately. He’d had little time to enter the Forbidden Forest, despite his best efforts. He had become quite adept at evading his Head of House but Sylvain did not want to needlessly draw Snape’s attention to him.  The inability to be immersed in nature, in the natural sentient magic there, was wearing on him. His feet crunched on the frost that had accumulated on the grass just beyond the lakes shore. Sylvain watched the glassy surface, smooth and black, like the obsidian stone that had changed his life forever. Despite only entering his second year, he felt the weighty press of a duty far greater than him. A duty to Old Magic. To Fea.

He made his way to an outcropping of rock, jutting from the foothills of the mountainside that bordered this edge of the lake. He quickly drew his rune circle in the sandy dirt there and focused on his task. Sylvain had an hour between Transfiguration and Potions that he used to practice the elemental magic he’d been studying. The walk usually took ten minutes, if he wasn’t interrupted on the way. The magic could be draining, so forty minutes of practice was a short enough time that he wouldn’t be tired for the rest of today’s classes.

He cleared his mind and reached within himself, as he’d done time and time again back home. The cold calm of his magic washed over him and Sylvain couldn’t help the smile that edged onto his lips. This was where he was comfortable. Safe. Soaked in magic. Powerful.

He focused the energy inside him to flow to the palm of his hand, sweat beading on his forehead in concentration. Sylvain wasn’t surprised when nothing happened, his magic churning in his hand restlessly. He focused on fire springing to life, of heat and flames licking his skin. Sylvain’s magic strained, swirling about, longing.

He let out the breath he’d been holding in anticipation. It was strenuous for him to focus his core this long, but he pushed on anyway, the chilled air cooling the sweat on his skin. His body was completely cold, inside and out. He wanted the warmth of fire, the heat, to be burned. Sylvain pushed again, harder this time, and felt small flames spring forth. They formed loosely in his hand, orange and yellow wisps that barely emitted any warmth.

Sylvain subdued the elation he felt, even though he’d practiced all summer with Fea, it was always just as thrilling each time he succeeded. He didn’t want his emotions to cloud his concentration however, so he brought his mind into focus. The flames in his hand grew, forming a ball in his palm. Sylvain held his arm out, slowly moving the ball of flame from his right hand to his left. His heart was hammering in his chest, blood and magic rushing through him. Carefully, he curled his arm close to him before flicking his wrist out, and the ball sailed through the air before landing in the icy water of the Black Lake. The flames extinguished immediately, Sylvain felt his magic retreat into his core.

He’d come a long way in his studies since last year. Calling the elements to him was becoming more fluid and he’d continued his dueling studies with Fea as well. The wind gusted, chilling the sweat on his hairline. He missed her, more than he would ever admit out loud. The summer holidays hadn’t been enough time to subdue the restlessness that had settled in his bones over his first year at Hogwarts. The start of term had been exciting, returning to the castle and his friends had given him something to look forward to. Sylvain knew that he needed something more, a challenge. It was time to start pushing himself further than he had last year. The Black Lake’s surface rippled from the breeze. He watched a raven perched on a branch of a pine tree along the far edge of the lake croak. He thought to call out to it, to speak its tongue, but decided against it. Slyvain was always fighting to keep his intimacy with Old Magic concealed, particularly since he’d noticed Granger watching him.

Sighing he removed the runes he’d drawn into the dirt and made his way back to the castle for potions.

 

~

 

The potions classroom was as uninviting as ever, smelling of something musty and unbearably drafty for the time of year. The cold that had cooled Sylvain by the lake followed him here, making him draw his school robes a little tighter around his uniform. Draco and Blaise were already seated with Daphne Greengrass, a fellow second year Slytherin, towards the front of the class. Hermione Granger’s eyes followed him across the classroom, narrowing in distrust. Sylvain paid her no mind as he sat beside his housemates. Daphne and Blaise were absorbed in conversation about their dueling class with Professor Rosier when he settled in next to Draco. The Malfoy heir’s head was tilted in their direction, seeming to listen in on what they were saying, but his eyes remained distant. How curious.

“Sylvain, did you hear?” Daphne asked, excitement in her smile. She leaned towards him conspiratorially, though Sylvain imaged what she was about to tell him was no secret.

“I hear many things Daphne, dear, you’ll have to be more specific.” Sylvain cupped his chin with the palm of his hand, propping his head up on the table.

Daphne huffed. Her warm smile cooled, becoming less natural. While Sylvain had easily fallen in with Draco and Blaise, it seemed that he and Daphne had picked up where they had left of last year – cautious on Sylvain’s part and stubbornly relentless on Daphne’s. Sylvain remained calm and collected with all his year mates, including Draco who he shared a much closer relationship with. For some reason, this rankled Daphne, but she was determined to be close to Slyvain.

“Professor Black has made an announcement about the Dueling competition.” Her tone was much less enthusiastic and tinged with just enough annoyance for the corner of Slyvain’s mouth the quirk. “There’s a mandatory meeting this Friday after classes for those wishing to participate.” She finished, words stale.

Blaise cut in before Sylvain could respond, hushing his voice slightly, “I hear Secretary Riddle might even attend, since he made the push with the Governors to have the class as a part of the curriculum.” Sylvain watched from the corner of his eye as Draco squirmed at the mention of Riddle.

He sighed, turning to his friend fully now, “Draco why are you sulking?” He asked flatly. Draco had made himself a near constant presence around Sylvain since they’d started Hogwarts together a year ago, and as result Sylvain had become quite attuned to the other’s moods. It wasn’t like Draco made it difficult to notice, either.

“I’m not sulking.” He quickly shot back, his expression souring.

“You’ve been quiet since breakfast,” Sylvain continued when Draco made no move to respond, “Your constant commentary about this dueling competition has been unending since we found out we could participate this year.”

Draco only pursed his lips further at Sylvain’s words, turning his eyes away to look at something in the corner of the class. Dodging. Sylvain couldn’t help but sigh again at the antics. He forged on nonetheless, “Yet now we hear word of it, and you are uncharacteristically silent. Care to share?” He pushed.

“I received a letter from my father this morning.” Draco didn’t elaborate further and Sylvain’s frustration grew. Draco never seemed to care about being discreet, so why now? Perhaps Sylvain had underestimated the amount of trust he’d built with him over the past year. Draco glanced at Sylvain, watching as the boy quirked an eyebrow at him. “He was troubled over an invitation he had received from Secretary Riddle.”

“To the Yule gala he’s holding?” Daphne asked. At Sylvain’s curious expression she explained, “Secretary Riddle doesn’t often host social events. Attends them, of course, but never more than that.”

Why was Riddle throwing a Yule gala? Sylvain’s curiosity peaked even further. Fea had made no mention of an invitation, unsurprisingly, since she had yet to claim her ancestral seats in the House of Lords or make any sort of entrance into Wizarding society barring Sylvain’s schooling at Hogwarts as her heir. He had read about a piece of legislation that Riddle had been backing, pertaining to restrictions to certain kinds of ritual magic, however. Perhaps this was an attempt to gain support? It had been wildly unpopular in Light circles, with some very vocal opponents attempting to smear it in the press. That didn’t explain Lucius’ discomfort however, or why he had chosen to share it with his son. The Malfoy lord did not strike Sylvain as the sharing type.

“Has your family received an invitation, Sylvain?” Blaise asked. Sylvain considered how he should respond. He knew that the three around him had all likely been invited, and it would put him at a disadvantage if they knew he hadn’t.

“Fea has not made mention of it.” He replied, tone carefully colored with boredom.

“Why don’t you call her your mother?” The firm voice from their left startled all four Slytherins out of their little bubble of conversation. Sylvain had been too intensely focused on the line of conversation concerning Riddle he hadn’t noticed Granger approach the side of their table. Sylvain narrowed his eyes at her, watching her eyebrows pinch together beneath her curly fringe in concentration. She was trying not to lose her nerve.

“Did your parents never teach you it’s impolite to eavesdrop, Granger?” Draco spat. His eyes were venomous, eyeing Granger as though she were a fly that had been buzzing about his head for too long.

Professor Snape pushed open the door to his office with a loud creak, sweeping towards the front of the class in a mass of billowing black. Sylvain’s skin prickled as he kept his eyes locked with Granger’s, neither of them backing down.

Sylvain finally cut through the tension, his voice sharp, “Perhaps you should make your way back to your seat, Miss Granger. Class has begun.” Sylvain turned away from her swiftly, dismissing any further conversation.

He did his best to listen to Snape’s obligatory berating of his students before informing them of their lesson for the day, but he felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin. What was Granger playing at? She had been nosing around his business since last year and had quickly made herself a nagging presence this term.

A more pressing issue pushed its way to the forefront of his mind however – Riddle. Sylvain needed to find a way to secure an invitation.

He knew he could simply contact Fea and ask her to pull some strings, but there was no satisfaction in that. He didn’t want to run to her for every little hiccup he might have. Besides, the restless stirring inside him wanted to have some _fun_. Hogwarts was unendingly interesting but he was used to the wild, to freedom. He wanted to be _seen_.

Perhaps he’d compete in the dueling competition after all.

 

 

~

All the desks that were normally used during lecture had been pushed along the walls of the classroom in neat little stacks, making room for the swell of students currently crowded into the room used for Dueling instruction. The voices of a few hundred students were creating one rolling wave of noise, that seemed to crash against the vaulted ceilings and high arched windows in its excitement. There were students from every year throughout the room, even some first years had shown up, despite their inability to compete until next year.

Sylvain listened to his friends, attempting to restrain their anticipation, but their words rushed out of them in short bursts and flutters despite it. Draco nudged Sylvain in the ribs, eyes bright, before asking, “Are you planning on entering your name, Sylvain?” His voice a little louder than strictly necessary, as he spoke.

Draco and Blaise had been attempting to needle the information out of him all week, after both stating their intentions with firm pride. Sylvain had so far dodged their inquiries, enjoying the way they grew ever more agitated at his refusal to bite. He smiled in answer, eyebrow quirking at Draco. Daphne rolled here eyes, dismissing him as Blaise matched Slyvain’s smile with one of his own – all white teeth and stretched skin.

Professor Regulus Black made his entrance at that moment, the double doors behind his desk swinging open with a gust of dusty castle air as he came to stand before the gathered group of students. Professor Black was tall and sinewy, his cheekbones two twin juts on his face framed by silky black hair that fell to his shoulders in waves. His eyes were grey, constantly scanning and darting, never at rest as though they were examining all the fine lines of life’s face that others seemed to miss. He clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for the gathered students to quiet before he began.

“The purpose of this meeting is to lay the ground rules for the competition we will be holding at the end of next week and to provide a form for students to submit their names for entry into the competition,” He began, posture rigid as he spoke. Professor Black was methodic in his teaching during class and Slyvain had found himself surprised by his knowledge and thoroughness more than once throughout his time in class. The Dueling course had been introduced during their First year at Hogwarts, the culmination of diligent years of work on the part of Secretary Riddle as well as Lucius Malfoy, who both occupied seats on the school’s Board of Governors.

“First, we will discuss the structure of the Tournament before quickly covering the rules.” Professor Black continued, his words clipped like scraps of parchment cut with precision. “There will be two competitions, one held next week for students in each year to compete against one another. There will be a winner declared from each year. These students will then compete against each other during a second competition at the end of the year, for overall winners. Students from Second Year through Fourth Year will compete, as will students from Fifth year and up.” Regulus paused, allowing his words to sink in. Sylvain understood the reason for the division, it would be unfair to allow a second year to compete against a sixth or seventh year student, who would have learned much more complex stances and spellwork. He still felt his skin heat and itch at the prospect, Slyvain imagined the thrill of competing against a student several years his senior, what it would feel like to struggle, to attempt to out maneuver them. While Slyvain knew he was much more advanced than most of his peers, he held no illusions about the possibility of defeat were he to be matched against someone older than him.

“Of the students who enter their names today, eight will be selected from each year to compete next week. Two students from each house, who will first compete against each other, and then against their fellow houses before a winner is declared.” Professor Black scanned the gathered students momentarily, eyes never resting on any one. He unclasped his hands, moving toward the blackboard where a list of rules had been written. “These are the rules: No excessive bodily harm, or violent magic is to be used. You are encouraged to be inventive, creative, _efficient_ in overtaking your opponent, but the match is won by _disarming_.” Professor Black trailed a finger through the chalk dust accumulated on the board, creating a streaked underline beneath the first rule. “Questions?” A third year Gryffindor raised their hand and Black nodded in their direction.

 

“What about incapacitation? Can you win a match should you temporarily incapacitate your opponent or is it strictly disarming?” The third year who had spoken had straw hair and dark green eyes set close together. From where Slyvain was standing he could see the faintest dusting of freckles on the Gryffindor’s face.

“Incapacitation will certainly win the match, however, incapacitation that results from anything more than a stunner could result in punishment. As I said, bodily harm is highly discouraged, and should an instance arise it is at the discretion of the Headmaster and the board how to proceed. This will be your first, but certainly not last, warning on this matter.” Black waited a moment for more questions before proceeding. “As such, it should come as no surprise that Unforgivables are _strictly_ prohibited as well as the Dark Arts.” Regulus pointed to the second rule on the board, a rush of whispers breaking out among the students. Sylvain eyed his friends where they stood on either side of him, gauging their reactions. Not even Draco dared scrunch his nose in displeasure, all their attention carefully placed on Professor Black and decidedly neutral.

“Third and finally, each student will be checked for any potions, charms or other forms of enhancement before the competition to ensure a level playing field. Should a student decide to err in such a way they will find themselves immediately removed from the competition and reprimanded.” Black produced two sheets of parchment from inside his robes, moving from the chalkboard to his desk where he placed them. “Here are the entry forms. Write your name, House and year. The list of selected applicants will be posted this Sunday outside the classroom. Good luck.” Professor Black turned on his foot and exited through the doors he had come through, not sparing a single student even a cursory glance on his way out. Sylvain was unsurprised, the man had always been rather to the point about things.

Daphne had not planned on competing, only accompanying her Slytherin companions for support and the excitement, so she decided to make her exit while most were preoccupied with getting to the desk to enter their names. Draco and Blaise watched Slyvain in silence, waiting for him to depart with Daphne.

Slyvain cocked his head to the side, hands spreading out before him. He looked to Draco and then Blaise before asking, “Shall we?” Slyvain did not wait for their response, carefully sliding around students like smoke, making his way to the front with sure steps. His heart raced against his chest as he took up the quill and dipped it into an open inkwell. It wasn’t the kind of quickened beating that felt like claws though, his blood thrummed and felt like gold, like it might be shimmering through his skin - bright and alive. As he carefully wrote his name, one trailing loop and curve at a time he felt something slide into place within him. His magical crackled through him, as though it were sealing some fluttering strand of his fate firmly into place.

That night, Sylvain dreamt of a crackling Yule log as it burned in the hearth of his home, and blood red eyes.


	6. Quartz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourteen...flipping..pages. Enjoy! :)

Hogwarts was a mystery at night, all black with twinkling lanterns pressing shadows to stone. Sylvain’s favorite view of it was from just within the tree line of the Forbidden Forest. He hadn’t been sleeping well since they’d announced the competitors on Sunday. His name, right above the rest from his year, had felt like a knife. His chest was bloody and sore from the wound it had left. His trepidation had led him here, to the only place that could calm him when his bones felt like they might rattle right through his flesh and go running through the fields.

Sylvain pressed his back against the small cluster of holly trees he had befriended. Learning the language of Trees, birds, fish, mice, all creatures was easy – like accessing Old Magic it was numerous attempts and failures before the key finally slid into the lock and _turned_. Speaking to trees was easy, getting them to trust you, to protect you, was another story. Fea had spent decades earning the forest’s trust, and the maintenance was unending. Trees liked conversation, of the long drawn out variety. Pines and oaks were the worst but looked favorably upon Sylvain’s wit. The holly trees though, they were his favorite. Always spritely, chipper but above all – loyal. He had spent the better part of his first year walking the tree line, hours when he could spare and minutes when he couldn’t, speaking to them. Perhaps Granger’s ire was a result of his bizarre jaunts amongst the tree’s eaves early in the evening, sometimes skipping supper. Draco and Blaise always assumed he was in the library and Slyvain took care to make his way back there in time to keep the cover.

It had paid off. Sylvain pressed closer to the bark behind him, listening to the hollies whisper: _Do not fret sapling, we will protect you._ As if Snape, now sweeping past Slyvain and further into the forest, could hear them. He had managed to evade his Head of House on the occasions he caught wind of Slyvain shadowing his way through the school toward this mossy sanctuary. He paused, listening for Snape’s movements, before thanking the holly trees, making his way toward the middle of the forest. Sylvain doubted he’d ever come to know all its overgrown corners, but he hoped to know it as intimately as he knew the stones and squirrels that inhabited the forest he grew up in.

Sylvain stepped carefully around a ring of mushrooms that oozed crimson jelly, his feet light as he quickened his pace. He’d been avoiding the part of the forest where the centaurs ranged, not yet ready to introduce himself, though he was sure they already knew of his continued presence here. He came upon a clearing where he had made a small fire pit and set about starting a fire with the kindling he kept there, sheltered under woven fronds and dead leaves from rain. Sylvain had always favored clearings. He was convinced it was strategic, a better vantage point should something stumble upon him and not his sentiment getting the better of him. He often dreamt about that day with Fea, the copse of trees surrounded by barren ground all around, where his fate had been irrevocably tied to the witch of the woods. To Old Magic.

Sylvain blew on the dried leaves and twigs as they sparked, flaring flames in the quiet night. He fed a few more branches to it, watched as they were caught in orange and white teeth, turning black and ashen. Sylvain drew three crystals from his pouch – two amethyst pillars and a smooth oval of moonstone. The firelight caught on it’s milky surface, purple and blue flecks shimmering in and out of existence. His chest tightened as he pulled his parchment and quill out next. He had little time to write to Fea, but when he did it only felt right to do so here, communing with the Old in a way only the two of them could. His connection with her was strongest here.

Sylvain dipped his quill in the ink, the scratching of its tip against his parchment muffled by the cracking of his fire:

_Fea,_

_I apologize for the lapse in time since my last letter. Since you have not yet replied I will take it to mean that you are just as busy. Though with what, I cannot imagine. That stubborn willow you’ve been working on cannot truly be that much of a bother._  Sylvain paused, a soft huff escaping him as he considered starting the letter over again. Fea had never seemed amused by his underhanded comments. He had been spending too much time with Draco. He gathered his thoughts, remembering why he had decided to write –

_I have decided to enter a competition at school, for dueling. I found out on Sunday that I was selected as a competitor. I’m worried I behaved hastily, that the wild you have grown in me will get the better of me and I will behave inappropriately. Tom Riddle may be there. Knowing this hasn’t helped. I haven’t been sleeping well. I am always restless here, away from you. From the aspens and the streams. You still have not told me why you wish for me to gain Riddle’s favor. I trust in your guidance, as always, but I worry that you have given me an impossible task. Will you tell me more about him? The books in the library only laud his genius and puzzle over his sudden decision to enter politics after two years abroad. Do you find it strange, as they do? I can’t help but wonder what happened during those two years.._

_I won’t bore you with what it’s like to live in the presence of a Malfoy day in and day out. Blaise can at least keep up with me. Daphne is lovely and impossible all at once. This letter will find you under the rays of a New Moon, tomorrow evening I should think, after I have already won this infuriating competition. Something possessed me, it gripped me and nothing but writing my name on that paper seemed right. I am anxious._

_Always yours,_

_Sylvain_

The trembling that had taken up residence in his fingers over the last few days had eased, as if spilling this small part of himself to Fea had rid him of some illness. Sylvain sealed the letter, pressing the wax with care. He kicked dirt into the fire, making his way back through winding gnarled trees, calling to a barn owl he came upon perched in one of his holly trees. He tied the letter to its leg and watched his words be carried away into the stars.

~

 “Sylvain.” Draco hissed, his face close enough to Slyvain’s ear that his breath felt humid against Sylvain’s skin. Draco was pinching his elbow, hard. Sylvain nearly swatted at him before he noticed where Draco was staring, eyes fixed. “My father and Secretary Riddle have arrived.” Draco nodded his head in their direction, icy blue eyes flashing. Draco’s lips were pressed together, the grip on Sylvain’s arm tightening impossibly.

Slyvain watched the two make their way across the room, skirting around the platform that had been erected in the middle of the Dueling classroom for the competition. A few rows of seating had been set up for guests to view the competition from and Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle were now in the front row. Sylvain felt his skin prickle and his fingers twitch inside his robes. This was the man Fea had set his course toward, for what end he didn’t know, but here was a chance he might not get for some time to observe the other from obscurity. Tom Riddle did not yet know who he was and Sylvain would make the most of it while he could. Hopefully by the end of this he would no longer be another unnoticed and unnamed face in a crowd of students.

“Sylvain, it’s time.” Blaise motioned toward the official that was standing at the end of the platform, in front of the seating. Second years were first to have their wands inspected and for any performance enhancing spells or potions. This was the first time Hogwarts had held an intra-school competition in decades and they were doing everything to make it as _official_ as possible. Sylvain nodded once to his friends before making his way toward the group of second years that had gathered for inspection.

Sylvain kept himself as still as possible as he waited, careful not to look in the direction of where Malfoy and Riddle were seated. He kept his eyes forward, his posture almost severe, but his hands couldn’t stop fiddling with his wand where they were hidden within the folds of his robes. Fea would chide him for his nervousness. There were three students in front of him, Theo was waiting behind him, the other Slytherin competitor from his year. His ears felt hot as he waited, and he hoped they weren’t red. Anything but complete composure at this point would be seen as a weakness and Sylvain could not forgive himself if he appeared as anything but perfectly put together. Out of the corner of his eye he caught quick glimpses of the man seated only a few feet from him. Dark hair, combed and slicked away from smooth pale skin. Tom Riddle’s face was impassive, his cheekbones like two sharp knives that might dig into your stomach if you weren’t being careful, brown eyes dark enough to be black taking in the gathered crowd passively. Sylvain knew, even from his brief glances, that it was a taunt. Everything about the Secretary was a chosen statement, as though everything was beneath his notice or measure, but Sylvain would bet galleons that he was taking in everything happening around him with the precision of a falcon awaiting it’s single fell swoop towards death.

“Sylvain Morrigan, please step forward.” They had chosen a member of the ministry’s wand regulatory committee to complete the inspections. The official was tall and thin, his robes hanging from his body in pools. Sylvain stepped forward, still carefully watching Secretary Riddle from his peripheral vision. He was so close to the man now, less than three feet away, and if his attentions towards the politician hadn’t gone noticed before they surely were now. Sylvain held no illusions that everything he did was being scrutinized, however unaffected Tom Riddle appeared. Fea would not have presented him with anything but a challenge. Sylvain pulled his aspen wand from within his robes and placed it on the small table in front of him.

“Aspen,” The official commented. He had a voice that reminded Sylvain of coarse rocks clicking together. “A good wood for dueling, I’ve heard.” The official ran his wand along the length of Sylvain’s wand, quietly murmuring an incantation. Sylvain smiled politely at the encouraging comment. Something was making his mind itch – the most powerful wizards and witches he had encountered so far all had an aura that he could perceive, could taste and understand like he could Old magic. Snape, Dumbledore, McGonnogal, Fea – they all had a certain feeling that they projected. In some cases unconsciously but Sylvain knew that Fea could control hers, that Dumbledore at times implemented the same tactics. Sylvain had attempted to project his aura for different ends but wasn’t as in tune with his magic as others.

“All seems to be in order, you may take back your wand.” The official gestured towards the table where the white smooth wood of Sylvain’s wand seemed to gleam in the midday light that filtered in from the high arching windows. “I will run a quick diagnostic spell on you, it might tingle but there should be no discomfort.” Sylvain barely heard the words as he reached out with his magic. Even Lucius Malfoy was projecting an aura – icy like his own but smooth. There were no jagged edges, like a fresh frost over tumbled stone. But Tom Riddle projected nothing – he was as empty and hollow as a fallen tree trunk.

Sylvain found it difficult to believe that a wizard who was top of his class at Hogwarts, who had received numerous accolades, was considered a _prodigy_ in most histories would not naturally exude an aura the likes of Dumbledore or even _Snape_.

Intention. Sylvain felt his skin tingle as a wand was waved in front of him, but he ignored it in favor of pushing his magic further. He couldn’t control the curiosity that was now burrowing itself into his stomach like a rabbit furiously wiggling into its hole to safety. What was Tom Riddle hiding? Sylvain tried to control it, to keep his magic at a safe distance, to go unnoticed but there was still nothing. He pushed a little further, knowing that the official’s diagnostic spell wouldn’t last more than a few seconds and he would be across the room again and at a disadvantage. Sylvain brushed against something, soft and hesitant, he hadn’t meant to go so far and the feeling of eyes on him flooded his senses because he knew he had been caught. He could feel the searing heat of exposure, like the persistent sparks of flint against steel in his veins, in his bones. Sylvain gripped his wand, gritted his teeth.

“You’re clear, Mr. Morrigan. Good luck to you!” The official smiled and waved Sylvain away. Each step he took back towards Draco and Blaise felt like hot irons had been placed beneath his feet. Tom Riddles magic trailed after him like the sounds of snapping teeth, like the loud puffs of breath from a wolf sniffing out new territory.

 

~

Sylvain’s hand tightened around his aspen wand, limbs taut with excitement. The last time he had dueled had been with Fea’s spelled dummies this past summer. He hadn’t realized how much his body longed to be sprung back into action. He and Theo bowed at the waist before taking ten paces in opposite directions. The dueling platform felt firm under Sylvain’s feet. He turned on his foot, lowering himself into a slight crouch, his wand arm raised above him, poised and impatient to fire.

The hundreds of eyes on him melted away as he focused in on his breath. The silent rise and fall of his chest centered him, his focus razor sharp as he surveyed Theo. He was taller than Sylvain by at least two inches, perhaps more. His arms were long but slightly awkward, however his positioning as they awaited the start of the match was not one that spoke of inexperience. Coming from a semi-prominent pure blood family likely meant Nott was not clueless in formal dueling. Perhaps he had been given some lessons, but Sylvain knew that there were few in the crowd and even competition that had received the training he had.

He felt his skin prickle in excitement. Should he keep himself concealed? He wanted to garner at least enough interest from Riddle to get an invite to the suspicious Yule Gala. After feeling the man's magic, he wanted an in even more so, despite the fear that coursed through him at the thought. Sylvain shuddered at the blazing heat that had licked his skin briefly before retreating. It was lethal. Tom Riddle was hiding something.

“Begin!” Snape hissed, moving quickly from the center of the platform and to the side. He remained close enough to step in if needed. Despite the sneer placed firmly on his face, Sylvain knew the Potions professor would intervene if necessary.

Theo shot a stunner at Sylvain almost immediately, which he side-stepped. He kept his eyes locked on Nott, the predator that clawed about inside him rising. Fea had instilled a carefully controlled kind of violence in him when it came to fighting. Sylvain flicked a stunner and a disarming spell in quick succession at the other. Theo shielded himself from the attack, advancing a few steps as the spells dissolved against his shield.

They were testing each other out, holding out until a weakness presented itself. Sylvain knew Theo’s spell repertoire was likely more limited than his, but he wasn’t ready to reveal how much he knew to all these spectators. Perhaps he could goad Theo into brashness. He usually remained level headed but Sylvain had seen the Nott heir lose his temper before.

He cast a tickling charm at Theo’s face, smirking as it brushed past him on purpose. He watched the others face contort into distaste at the light spell. “A tickling charm Morrigan? Surely you’re better than that.” He spat. Sylvain had remained on his end of the platform, barely moving. Theo was advancing closer, however. He shrugged at Theo’s attempted insult. Brown eyes narrowed at him, displeased. Theo’s ears turned scarlet.

 

“Now Theo, I’m sure you can handle a tickling charm,” Sylvain laughed. Cocking his head at Theo’s slowly souring mood he shot back, “No need to get so upset.” Sylvain watched as the other boy growled, advancing on him heatedly. He cast another stunner but followed it with a slicing spell. It was a household charm, used for cutting vegetables or fruit, and therefore wouldn’t register as necessarily ‘dark.’ Sylvain felt his pulse quicken, the thrill of toying with the other bringing a rush. He smiled darkly as he easily dodged the slicing spell, making Theo falter in his rush toward him.

 

Sylvain twirled his wand delicately in front of him, pointing the tip toward Theo’s feet, “ _Abolesco_.” He whispered, watching the violet colored spell spin toward Theo. His opponent smirked, thinking Sylvain had aimed poorly, not realizing where the other had intended the spell to go. Theo’s eyes widened when the platform beneath his feet, seemingly so solid and firm, rapidly dissolved. He fell through the hole, flailing as he attempted to grasp the edge. The curse had taken him off guard. A loud thump sounded as Theo thudded onto the stone floor beneath.

 

Sylvain briskly walked the few feet between himself and the opening, peering inside to see the shadow of brown eyes glaring up at him. Theo opened his mouth, likely to curse him, but Sylvain made quick work of disarming the other boy. He caught Theo’s wand as it sailed through the air toward him, bowing to the boy laying in an embarrassed heap on the ground. Sylvain handed the wand to Snape who was now peering down his nose at Nott, before making his way off the platform. The two Hufflepuff competitors would now duel each other, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Susan Bones. Then they would move on to dueling other houses. Matches so far hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes, as most competitors were inexperienced. His and Nott’s match had been the longest to this point, lasting seven minutes. Sylvain was excited to face off against Maeve Rosier, a Ravenclaw he shared classes with. They had spoken to each other little, but they both were interested into the secrets the other might carry. Draco had informed him, as was his habit, of the pureblood gossip surrounding her – the daughter of Evan Rosier, she seemed to be a black sheep and was singled out in her family for being sorted to Ravenclaw instead of Slytherin **.**

Sylvain settled in next to Draco, who congratulated him on his win. Nott made his way over to their group but stood a few feet away, not approaching them. Sylvain rolled his eyes, refusing the entertain Theo’s childishness.

“He’ll be sore about it for a while, but he’ll come around.” Blaise whispered from Sylvain’s left.) He nodded to Zabini in acknowledgement but said nothing more on the matter. Whether Nott stewed and seethed over his loss was not his concern. Sylvain could still feel his blood rushing through his veins, his skin burning. Back home with Fea he could spar and duel until this restlessness subsided. He often felt the need to _move_ , sometimes it would take hours before he could settle again. Here he was confined, boxed in by what spells he could and couldn’t use. What the appropriate display of power was. For the first time since he’d come Sylvain suddenly felt sick at how willfully _weak_ wizards and witches were. They had destroyed, banned, locked away so much without good cause.

Draco sensed his restlessness, looking nervously from Sylvain's tense form and the dueling platform where the Hufflepuff match was concluding. Malfoy rarely became uncomfortable around Sylvain when his magic became intense, or his mood darkened. In fact, the blonde boy almost seemed to relish those times. This was different, more violent. It was as though he could hear Sylvain’s ill thoughts. He huffed at his friend’s concern. Draco only cared for his own sake. If Sylvain did something _unbecoming_ it might reflect poorly on Draco, or worse implicate him. Susan Bones waited on the platform victorious as Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor competitor, made her way through the crowd to face off against the Hufflepuff. He hadn’t been paying attention to the Hufflepuff match, but he knew that Granger was intelligent and spirited. She would be a difficult competitor for Bones.

“Sylvain,” Draco whispered harshly. He jerked his head in the blonde’s direction, confused why he was bloody _whispering_ when the noise in the room was deafening. He’d only heard his name because of Draco’s proximity. The blonde had grasped the side of Sylvain’s robe, clutching it for dear life. What was the brat’s problem now? Draco lifted his head beyond Sylvain to the left end of the platform. The blonde didn’t look in the direction he was motioning toward however, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on Sylvain’s green, his expression pinched.

Sylvain narrowed his eyes but curiosity at Draco’s behavior got the better of him. He searched the direction Draco had indicated **.** Tom Riddle sat beside Lucius Malfoy, back straight and hands folded in his lap delicately. Malfoy’s head was turned toward Riddle slightly, mouth moving as he commented to the Secretary to the Minister. The man was clearly not listening to whatever it was Lucius was going on about, his gaze locked on Sylvain. The younger boy met his stare, uncomfortable with Riddle’s heavy gaze, but interest bathed his insides, heightening his already restless mood. The dark brown eyes that watched him appeared impassive, his expression was blank, but Sylvain wasn’t fooled. He had felt the man's magic, he knew the politician in front of him was some sort of farce **.** Unnerved, Sylvain turned his attention back to the duel in front of him, feigning interest as Hermione cast a spell that covered Bones’ face and arms in pustules that popped and oozed green puss. Momentarily disoriented, Bones lost focus long enough for Granger to disarm her and win the match.

The Gryffindors erupted into elated cheering, the room becoming heavy with tension and excitement. Sylvain fed off the energy, allowing the thickness in the room to wash over him. He felt the icy chill of his magic inside his chest prickle at the atmosphere. He called to it and his magic responded in kind, curling around him. Sylvain would be the only one able to see the silvery crystals of his magic, but those around him could feel it. However, the overwhelming buzzing of magic in the air after another match masked his magic. Electricity ran up Sylvain’s spine as Snape motioned for him to climb the stage. Maeve was already waiting on the other end, her cropped caramel hair disheveled as she ran her hand through it nervously. The Ravenclaw eyed Sylvain as he confidently strode to the center of the platform, meeting Maeve’s gaze heatedly. Her nerves seemed to dissipate at the challenging look, being replaced by fire that seemed to make her honey colored eyes burn brighter. Maeve had a rebellious streak the size of Britain and the kind of intellect and attitude that made it dangerous. Sylvain wondered if he could bridle that fire, that insatiable curiosity, for his own interests. The girl fascinated him.

Sylvain gave her a deep bow and Maeve returned the gesture, showing their tentative respect towards each other. Ten paces back, Sylvain watched her move into a defensive stance. He doubted the Ravenclaw would play defense for long. He took on a more neutral positioning, eyes shifting about in a frenzy. Sylvain was hoping the girl would be _fun_ and hopefully more of a challenge than Theo. The bars on his caged magic were rattling incessantly to be freed.

Maeve’s eyes didn’t leave Sylvain’s form as she assessed him, calculating her first move. Snape silently moved from the center, signaling the beginning of the duel.

“Bombarda maxima!” Sylvain shouted, watching as red light shot out of his wand and toward Maeve. At the last second, she leapt out of the way, watching as a chunk of the platform was blasted away in a cloud of dust and debris. The temporary cloud of smoke obscuring Maeve as she cast a whispered _Reducto_ at Sylvain, who spun out of the way just as the spell shot past him into the barrier separating them from the crowd. His green eyes seemed to glow an eerie shade as he advanced on Maeve. She took a few cautious steps back, her form becoming clearer as the smoke dissipated.

Sylvain cast a levitating charm at the piece of concrete he’d blasted away and had landed a few feet behind Maeve. The crumbling rock came hurtling at her from behind. Pieces of rock that had broken away sprayed her back however, and she ducked just in time to avoid being bludgeoned. From her crouch on the ground she growled, showing a white flash of teeth. The rock was sailing back toward her and she made quick work of it with another _Reducto_ , raining pebbles down on the two of them. Sylvain watched in amusement as Maeve transfigured the rocks into a swarm of angry crows, diving toward his head at full speed. He resisted the urge to speak to them, knowing they weren’t real crows, merely an illusion of one.

Waving his arm, he muttered, “ _Depulso_.” Watching as the birds flew toward the ceiling before disappearing completely. Before Sylvain could fully turn his attention back to his opponent, Maeve was already coming towards him, no longer on the offense. She hurled a shouted _Engorgio_ at his head, burning bright with the force behind it.

Sylvain was almost taken aback at the overpowered spell. He threw up a strong shield, watching as the icy blue light broke apart into pieces that never reached his head. Had the spell made contact, it would have swollen his skull and the surrounding tissues, possibly causing permanent damage. His face turned feral as he zeroed on his opponent. Sylvain supposed he deserved the clearly dangerous spell after he’d nearly knocked her skull in with a giant rock. He hazarded a glance at Snape, who appeared impassive but wore a furrowed brow. Would he intervene? He and Maeve were neither friends nor enemies, just interested parties trying to gain the upper hand. Sylvain wouldn’t intentionally maim or hurt her, she was a potential asset. He knew she could handle his rough play.

Sylvain circled his wand above his head, whispering, “ _Celare_.” Satisfaction filled his chest as grey smoke filtered from his wand in plumes, obscuring the immediate area in a thick haze. He let enough smoke out to cover the entirety of his half of the platform, knowing Maeve was a few feet from the edge of his cloud. He crouched low to the ground, lowering himself so he was on his belly. He watched as a red stunner shot through the mist above his head. He didn’t have much time before she figured out how to dispel the mist, so Sylvain began crawling across the concrete toward the edge of his obscurement charm. Maeve had taken a few steps backward, but he could just make out the black polished patent leather of her Mary Janes as a wisp of fog swirled momentarily.

“ _Incarcerous_.” He whispered, ropes crawling out of his wand and beneath the fog. He heard Maeve yelp, followed by the clatter of her wand dropping. Sylvain dispelled the fog, taking in Maeve’s rope bound body. Her golden eyes burned indignantly, but the smile on her face belied her amusement with the Slytherin.

“Well played, Morrigan. Where did you learn that obscuring charm?” She titled her chin up at him, defiant until the end. He canceled the binding spell, the ropes falling limply to the ground beside her. “It was brilliant.” She breathed, snatching her wand from beside her. The cheers of the students nearly drowned her out. Sylvain only smiled lightly, he wouldn’t reveal who or where he had learned most of his spells from.

Besides, it was much more fun to see if the Ravenclaw could figure it out on her own, living up to her houses reputation. Snape held up a hand, signaling he could wait on the platform for Granger. Theirs was the final match before the winner for their year was announced.

Granger looked conflicted, unsure of whether she should allow the brash confidence she was feeling shine through or give in to her anxious thoughts. Sylvain knew the girl was suspicious of him, she had been snooping about at night trying to catch him leaving the castle on his excursions to the Forbidden Forest. He wondered what she suspected him of? Dark magic? Something else just as ‘nefarious’ in her mind? She seemed like a capable enough witch, it was too bad her mind was clouded with magical prejudices.

Granger’s mouth was set in a hard line as they bowed, likely feeling determined after seeing Sylvain’s previous duel. Let’s see what the little muggleborn has got up her sleeve. Her movements were wooden as she took her paces away from Sylvain. He had a distinct advantage with her being muggleborn. She’d likely never dueled before coming to Hogwarts and they’d only just begun learning about the art in class.

Granger seemed to be thinking the same thing if her stiff posture was any indication. She didn’t move into any stance, just stood there with her wand aloft in front of her. Sylvain didn’t underestimate her though, Granger had displayed sharp intelligence during classes.

The bushy haired Gryffindor shot a slicing hex straight at his chest, catching Sylvain off guard. Who knew the little mudblood had the nerve? He had to quickly twist out of the way to avoid being struck. He hadn’t realized that whatever was festering between them had evolved to hostility though. Perhaps it was the thrill of the competition bolstering her, but Sylvain made a note to be more diligent than before in his interactions with her.

“My, my, the little lion’s claws seem to have finally come in.” Sylvain flicked his wand out, sending a disarming charm her way, taunting her even further. She wasn’t worth any more complex spells than that. She cast a shield in defense, her brows furrowing even further into her bushy hairline.

 

“Ebublio!” Granger shouted, thrusting her wand towards him, her shoulders stiff. The spell came hurtling towards him, but Sylvain was faster. He sidestepped her jinx, laughing. Fluidly he advanced on her, casting a quick succession of spells, first a stunner followed by a slicing spell. Her shield grew weak with the onslaught, and he used that to his advantage by turning to Granger’s left side, catching her unaware. Her shield was primarily covering the front of her, a common mistake.

“Engorgio!” He watched in delight as it caught her wand arm, swelling the limb to an unnatural weight. Unless the Gryffindor was skilled with both hands it would greatly slow her down. Her arm hung limp at her side, an angry red as the tissues expanded. Granger held her wand in her left hand with a loose grip, uncomfortable.

Taking a cue from his earlier duel, Granger decided she would need to get a little more creative in order to win. She turned so she was facing him, strengthening her failing shield as she did so. She pointed to the end of the platform now to her left, shouting, “Bombarda!”

A piece of the platform blasted off and Sylvain smirked. Using his own tricks against him wouldn’t work, unfortunately. Before Granger could cast the levitating charm to hurl the rock at him he cast another _Bombarda,_ pulverizing the rock into fine bits. Knowing her play was now useless she took two steps backward from Sylvain’s advancing form. He was getting closer and closer, knowing that close combat would make her more prone to mistakes.

Sylvain was growing bored though, and he wanted the duel to end. Toying with Granger hadn’t brought him as much pleasure as he thought it would. However, he couldn’t resist showing off a bit. Especially when he knew all eyes were on him, thrilled with the drama of the display in front of them.

He would give them a show.

Holding his palm up to his face he gathered himself, calming his mind into a blank canvas. He felt heat gathering in his palm, searing his skin. Granger blinked in confusion before coming to herself, she could use his temporary distraction to her advantage.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” She shouted, curls bouncing about her like a halo as she flung her arm into the spell. Sylvain watched darkly as the spell came toward him, sidestepping at the last second. She wouldn’t break his concentration. He had trained for moments like this. Focusing on the magic rising inside him, cold and comforting, he watched with intense eyes as flames began to spill from his open palm. Out of the corner of his eye Sylvain saw Snape shift, taking a step forward. He had to resist the urge to fling the man backward, not wanting him to interfere.

The flames licked his skin hotly. He willed them forward, delighted when they began to encircle Granger in a thick ring at her feet. She shrieked as they bit at her ankles, her eyes wide in fear. The more emotion she felt the hotter they seemed to become, growing in height as the ring rose in height to her knees.

“ _Augmenti!_ ” She was frantic, pointing her wand towards her feet as water jetted out. The flames were doused for only a moment before they reappeared. Sylvain fed more of his magic to them, watching as they grew higher yet, reaching toward her waist. The flames stayed contained in a ring, not touching her clothes or skin but effectively trapping her.

 _“Sylvain._ ” Snape warned, closing in on him. He was moving toward them, ready to douse the flames completely. Sylvain nearly sneered, before disarming Granger. Her wand landed dangerously close to the flames, but as soon as it hit the ground he extinguished the fire, closing his open palm into a fist. They dissipated, leaving a scorched ring around Granger in their wake. She stood frozen in place, staring at Sylvain with her mouth agape.

Sylvain walked to her wand, handing it to her in a show of courtesy. He wouldn’t want anyone to get the impression that he had wanted to _hurt_ her.

The shuffling of robes beside him startled him a bit, not having heard or seen the headmaster make his way onto the platform. Over the din of the crowd he grasped the sleeve of Sylvain’s robe, hoisting his arm in the air, much like they did in muggle boxing matches.

“Sylvain Morrigan is declared the winner!” Dumbledore’s voice sounded like a great boom of thunder throughout the hall, as he shot green and silver sparks from his wand. Sylvain didn’t miss the tightness around the Headmaster’s smile as he looked beside him. He was ushered off the stage, so they could prepare for the third-year matches.

He wanted to get out of here, no interest in seeing the other duels or returning to his friends. The hall suddenly felt stuffy as he noticed the eyes that watched him make his way down the stairs. Some looked impressed, others wary or even fearful. He had made a spectacle of himself. Hadn’t that been what he’d wanted? No, what he had wanted was to catch one pair of eyes. Sylvain slowly let his gaze drift toward the end of the platform where the officials sat. The stare he was met with was just as impassive as before, dark brown eyes bordering on black were cold as they tracked his form. He looked down as he passed their row of seats, feeling his ears burn. He had been foolish to try and impress Riddle, but his ulterior motivations got the better of him. Fea wanted him to get close to this man, and he knew that he would not be interested in any ordinary wizard.

The burning embarrassment at his attempt to _impress_ Riddle smarted as the realization of his stupidity hit him. Sylvain had thrust himself into a position he knew he didn’t want to be in. the sounds of students around him felt overwhelming and Sylvain didn’t hesitate to slip past his housemates and out of the room. He made towards the library, looking for solace in the pages of some undiscovered book. Sylvain needed to clear his mind, to focus on something practical and tangible. His heart raced, despite himself. The halls were deserted, most of the school gathered in the classroom he’d just vacated, so no one could see him losing his composure for a moment. He consoled himself with this momentary isolation.

He rounded a corner quickly and pressed himself against the cool stone wall, a hang raking through his dark hair shakily. He could feel sweat on his palm and resisted the urge to wipe it down the front of his robes. All the careful secrecy he had employed throughout his first and now second year here had been _wasted_. The blame rested entirely upon his shoulders. Why had Fea ever thought to trust him with her secrets? She had told him to position himself well, and he had. To grow stronger, he was. How much had he sabotaged by his vanity? Sylvain couldn’t deny that he had felt more alive in those brief moments than he had the entire time he’d been at Hogwarts, that something ancient and encompassing coursed needily through him even now. It longed to be used, stirred inside him and paced unending from within the confines of his magic.

He knew he’d set himself back with Riddle – it was unlikely he would be impressed by some second-year peacocking for his year mates. However, he could still salvage this. If anything, this would only solidify his position within Slytherin. He had already made moves to keep himself within the right circles, this would only fortify his position. The staff might be an issue, but he could invent a narrative to suit his purpose, to keep him from getting the wrong kind of attention.

Yes, Sylvain could work with this. Adjusting his robes, he pushed off the wall to continue on his way to the library but found his nose brushing a neatly pressed black cloak instead.

“Mr. Morrigan.” The words were dark and sounded too loud in the empty corridor. Sylvain took a step back, looking up only to catch an eyeful of Tom Riddle’s smirking face. How long had he been standing there? Sylvain thought of Ollivander, appearing from nowhere in the wand shop.

“Do you often haunt the castle corridors, allowing wizards to sneak up on you?” Tom Riddle’s face was impassive, despite the smirk that still quirked his lips. He turned abruptly on his foot, one fluid movement before asking, “To the library, I assume?” He didn’t wait for Sylvain to respond, his polished black shoes sounding on the stone floor like the soft tap tap of dripping water.

Sylvain felt his fingers twitching inside his robes, curling and uncurling. He remembered how to walk again and hurried to catch up as Riddle turned a corner. How had Riddle known he was going to the library? Sylvain supposed it wasn’t an uncommon route to take and Riddle had attended school here, likely spending just as much time with books as Sylvain did. He shivered, keeping his eyes forward and ignoring the way Riddle’s magic rushed forward and backward like gusts of dry desert wind.

“You have my attention, Mr. Morrigan.” Riddle said. His words were clipped, everything about him crafted and executed with precision. Sylvain nearly gaped, quickly snapping his mouth shut.

“Excuse me?” Sylvain asked. His voice was low and level, a small feat. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, his skin prickling as the magic beside him drifted about in scorching tendrils. The itch to rub at his face had his jaw clenching. Riddle stopped short, looking down at Sylvain from half lidded eyes, mocking. With just a few turns he had led Slyvain to a less used part of the castle, more alone than they had been moments before. Riddle’s eyes scorched him, and Sylvain was aware how out of his depth he was. Throwing daggers at a hundred spelled dummies couldn’t prepare him for this, for the moment where he felt like _prey_. Sylvain had begun a game of cat and mouse where he had made the mistake of forgetting that he was the mouse, now scurrying for some corner to hide from the cat that had caught his scent. The scent he had all but dangled on a string, tempting.

“Am I wrong to assume that was your intention, to impress me?” Riddle’s smile was full of teeth, twisting his face. Sylvain hoped he didn’t smile like that when he was attempting to win over his opposition. He scoffed softly as his answer, masking his panic. The magic brushing his skin grew hotter. Riddle stepped closer, crowding him in. Sylvain resisted the urge to move backward, toward the wall where he would be trapped. He could be afraid, could know that he was playing with the kind of fire he couldn’t control with magic, but he would not let his fear rule him. Not now, not when he knew he needed to stand firm. He wouldn’t be a bloody mouse to anyone.

“I should like to know where you learned that bit of magic,” Riddle’s voice was like a ream of silk as he spoke. “It was quite the trick.” He smiled around the word trick, toying with Sylvain. They both knew better but Riddle was banking on insecurity, given Sylvain’s flight from the competition. He took the tiny bit of victory that bubbled in him at knowing Riddle had read him wrong and used it for a smile of his own. The tiniest quirk of lips, not imperious like Riddles, but secretive.

“I’m sure you understand the value of being in possession of one or two secrets, sir.” Sylvain turned away, making to continue down the hallway. Riddle grabbed a handful of Sylvain’s school robe, not harshly but keeping him from escaping. Riddle tutted at him, releasing him. Whatever momentary advantage Sylvain had sought slipped away. He didn’t comment on Sylvain’s attempted escape, instead he leaned forward from behind.

“As I said, you have my attention Mr. Morrigan.” The darkness that clung to each of the Secretary’s words had Sylvain’s insides bubbling. He was dangerous, but the magic around him triggered something inside Sylvain that felt so familiar, as though he’d known it before. Felt its unwavering force like blood red eyes piercing him through, eyes he’d seen before, dreamt and dreamt of. Like when he’d written his name for the competition something twisted around in him, something _other_ and connected to Old Magic in a way he couldn’t understand. Possessing him to act, pushing him toward a path he was terrified and thrilled by. He knew this was dangerous, Riddle was an unknown factor – he could be a threat or an ally, everything or nothing. But Sylvain burned at the thought of one day _knowing._

 

 

“You strike me as a man who has never been satisfied.” Sylvain shot back, overwhelmed by the magic surrounding him. His own icy aura reached out in response, making his toes tingle.

“Oh?” The word hung in the air between them. Sylvain shifted so he could look up at the man fully, meeting the depthless eyes peering down at him.

“You’re like me,” He watched as Riddle narrowed his eyes, felt the heat burning behind them. The intrigue was nakedly present there, no longer guarded. “I’ll never be satisfied.” The alarms in the back of his mind sounded louder than before as intrigue flickered to fascination before disappearing. His words made a promise, I will never be satisfied with interest. I will always search for more, fight for more, never ending. They were a challenge.

“Perhaps,” Riddle smiled again, not his smirk, but the one full of teeth and warning. Sylvain felt his breath catch in his throat. “Unsatisfied curiosity can be both a boon and a hindrance.” He murmured, stepping away from his position behind Sylvain.

Sylvain turned around fully at the comment, face to face, waiting to see where the man would take his train of thought.

“There are many things that my curiosity never had the satisfaction of.. _discovering._ ” Riddle’s expression erased itself of any previous emotion, the intensity from a moment ago gone.

He was baiting Sylvain.

“Perhaps, you might succeed where I have failed.” Riddle might have had him if Sylvain didn’t notice the humor that tinged his false self-deprecation. “There are rumors of a chamber within the school, created by Salazar Slytherin himself.”

“Forgive me, but you must understand my hesitation at the thought that someone as talented as yourself was unable to _discover_ this particular secret.” Sylvain watched Riddle turn, hand fluttering beside him dismissively.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Morrigan.”  Drifted back to him as the Secretary to the Minister returned the way they had come.

The retreating magic that went with him left Sylvain’s skin scorched.                                                                  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please forgive me for the shameless Hamilton paraphrasing at the end. I couldn't help myself - I was listening to Satisfied on repeat while I wrote this.


	7. Lapis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehehehe I'm dead from life please forgive me - I checked this over as many times as my brain could handle. So if there are mistakes, I apologize.

The edge of the Forbidden Forest cast shadows on the grass around him. This was the closest Sylvain could get on a Sunday morning without risking getting in trouble. He watched the small garden snake make its way toward him at his call.

 

“ _The speaker._ ” It hissed, wrapping around his leg as it climbed up his body to get a better look at him. He had become notorious with the snakes that lived on the castle’s grounds over the past month. Sylvain’s search for the Chamber so far had been fruitless. Tirelessly, he had sought out every book in the library he could get his hands on. There was plenty of material on the Founders, Salazar Slytherin and his creation of the famed Chamber but none contained even a thread of information on where the entrance might be located. He had two weeks left before break, before Yule, and he felt the pressure to complete Tom’s task weighing down on him. Sylvain knew that this would be one of few opportunities, perhaps even the only one, to maneuver himself into the politician’s good graces.

 

“ _Yes,”_ Sylvain let the snake wrap around his forearm, bringing it to eye level so they could speak face to face. “ _I’ve come to ask you about a chamber in the school, one created by the speaker who helped build the castle. Do you know of it?_ ” He hissed, watching as a forked tongue flicked against the delicate skin of Sylvain’s wrist. Anytime he had the chance to speak to any of the creatures that lived at Hogwarts he had asked them. Sylvain had even spent one painful afternoon in the owlery, attempting to question the birds that stayed there. He had received a few painful pecks for his troubles, not coming any closer to discovering its location.

 

“ _I’m not old enough to know of the Chamber, it is before my time here.”_ The little green snake bobbed its head, sizing Sylvain up.

 

“ _Would you know anyone who might have information about it?”_ Sylvain tried not to let his impatience show, it was never in one’s interest to anger a snake. They would poison the other creatures of Hogwarts against him if they took offense at his impertinence. He had nearly made that mistake with the Ravens, bitter little creatures that they were.

 

He received no response, split yellow eyes unmoving as they watched him. Sylvain sighed before lowering the snake to the ground delicately, thanking it before watching its green body disappear into the thick grass at the edge of the forest.

 

A growl of frustration scratched up Sylvain’s throat, not knowing where to go from here. Fea had been cryptic in her response to his inquiry, likely wanting him to figure out whatever obstacle lay in his way without her help. He knew Riddle had been toying with him when he’d mentioned the Chamber, likely sending him on a fool’s errand for his own enjoyment. He’d laid out his challenge and Sylvain couldn’t even rise to the occasion.

 

Draco had noticed his preoccupation with something outside their studies, Slytherin politics and gossip. He’d already been dodging Granger’s constant snooping - he didn’t need Draco to become involved in this. He needed to discover the Chamber and wrap up this little quest, quickly.

 

Sylvain moved to make his way back to the castle, having wasted enough time cornering the ground’s animals for the day, when he heard the grass rustle. A green and orange snake much larger than the garden snake from before was making its way toward the clearing he had found near the forest’s edge.

 

The snake stopped short of Sylvain, watching him with its eerily unblinking eyes. It was around seven feet in length, with shining emerald scales and two long orange stripes down it’s back, colored with tiny bands of blue in between the orange. If Sylvain wasn’t mistaken it was a spitting snake, not magical in nature, but deadly all the same. He couldn’t image this snake was alive during the creation of Hogwarts and had any more knowledge about the chamber than the garden snake did, but perhaps inhabiting the forest and being in constant contact with its sentient magic had allowed it to live a prolonged life.

 

The spitting snake reared its head back, flicking its black tongue out rapidly as Sylvain stood still. They remained like that for a while, long enough that Sylvain felt his impatience grow. He hadn’t been sleeping, or eating that much either, his mind consumed with finding the chamber and little else. He didn’t want to spend any more time standing around while snakes, and Ravens, and hares _assessed_ him. Sylvain knew that it was common for creatures to do this when presented with a speaker of the Common tongue, the type of Old Magic that allowed wizards to communicate with all creatures. There hadn’t been many to practice the dead art in centuries, parselmouths being the exclusion from this. However, Sylvain was growing restless of it.

 

“ _Do you know where the Chamber is or not?”_ Sylvain snipped, emerald eyes narrowing at the snake before him. He watched as the spitting snake reared its head back with a hiss, shooting a stream of venom at him. Sylvain had to jump to avoid being hit by the acid, eyes wide.

 

They went back to observing each other in silence, Sylvain now sufficiently cowed into quiet submission. He should have known better than to rush the creature before it was ready. He had to be deemed worthy and acceptable. Bowing his head in a display of apology, he waited for the snake to speak.

 

It wasn’t long before he received a simple response, “ _Find the girl who never left.”_  The snake’s head bobbed as it hissed, before turning and slithering back into the forest.

 

Sylvain turned on his heel and made his way back to castle hastily.

 

 

 

~

 

 

“ _Hogwarts a History?_ ” Draco sniffed, face becoming impossibly more pinched. “Why in the world are you reading _that_?” Draco attempted to pull the book towards himself to look more closely at the page Sylvain was reading but was quickly swatted away.

 

“A pet project.” Sylvain stated, eyes never leaving the page. The girl who never left. He had been scouring the library for information on the ghosts that resided in the castle. The ones he had seen so far were all adults, but Sylvain knew the snake had said _girl_. There had to have been an incident of a student’s death. He just couldn’t seem to find anything on it.

 

“What kind of project?” Draco’s voice was barely above a whisper now, clearly intrigued by anything he might be currently working on outside of schoolwork. Sylvain leveled him with an unimpressed look, coaxing an indignant sigh from his friend.

 

“You could at least tell me what it’s _about_.” Draco’s jaw was clenching and unclenching rapidly. Sylvain wondered how long it would take for him to grow tired of Draco’s childish behavior. Sylvain chose to ignore him, continuing his reading instead.

 

 _Hogwarts a History_ was turning out to be a dead end. While the book was extensive, it made brief mention of the school’s ghosts, and none about a student dying here. Perhaps he was looking in the wrong place by only searching books. Maybe..

 

“Do you think the library archives old issues of the _Daily Prophet_?” He turned his head to Draco now, who had returned to his Charms essay dejectedly. The only response he received was a quirked eyebrow.

 

Sighing, he stood abruptly, “Fine.” He hissed, leaning down near Draco’s ear to assert his displeasure. He didn’t miss the small smile on Malfoy’s face as he walked towards the archives.

 

Sylvain looked through the catalogue, quickly finding what he was looking for. Another sigh escaped his lips when he saw that newspaper archives had begun in the late 1700’s.

 

“Alright then, better get to it.” He began combing through the papers, looking for any headlines that might stand out.

 

Sylvain’s stomach growled loudly reminding him he was missing dinner, as he finished fingering through an issue headlining a wizard who had gotten too drunk off firewhiskey and went streaking through Diagon when he found what he had been looking for.

 

‘ _Hogwarts tightens security after Muggle-born student dies!’_ It was the headline from the 1943 issue. Sylvain felt his fingers tighten around the newspaper, his heart pounding in excitement. He quickly skimmed the article, not many details surrounding the incident had been released but he only needed one.

 

Sylvain quickly returned the _Daily Prophet_ to the catalogue before heading to the first-floor girl’s lavatory.

 

~

 

The corridors were fairly empty, since it was dinner time. Luckily, he found the bathroom to be in the same state.

 

He entered, looking around for any clue as to where the entrance might be. Nothing seemed to stand out, which he was expecting. Slytherin wouldn’t have made the entrance to a hidden chamber obvious. He started at the end of the banquette of stalls, opening each door and inspecting the inside of them when he heard whimpering echoing from a stall.

 

Could it be?

 

“Myrtle?” He called out, waiting. The whimpering stopped, and the ghost of a girl floated out from inside. She had pigtails and huge wire frame glasses that covered most of her plain face.

 

“Who are you?” Myrtle demanded, ghostly eyes luminous in the shadowed bathroom. The only light coming from the torches hung on the walls. “No one comes to my bathroom, not for any _good_ reason anyway.” She lamented, coming closer to where Sylvain stood.

 

“My name is Sylvain, I haven’t come here to hurt you.” He tilted his head to the side, hair falling in his face as he did so. “What happened to you Myrtle?” He asked. Perhaps she could give him some clue as to where the entrance might be, however doubtful it might seem. Her eyes lit up at his curiosity and Sylvain couldn’t help the momentary pang of pity he felt for her before it slipped away, replaced with determination.

 

“Nobody ever wants to know how I _died_.” She cooed, reaching out her hands as she passed through Sylvain. He felt a shiver run through him at the sudden cold. “Oh it was dreadful, Sylvain! And it happened right here.” She pointed to the stall she had floated out from.

 

“Is that so? So, you know who killed you?” He walked toward the stall she’d left, peering inside. It seemed ordinary inside and Sylvain felt his excitement wane a little. Perhaps the ghost wouldn’t be useful after all.

 

“No, I don’t!” She cried, big wet sobs filling the bathroom. Sylvain couldn’t tell if the display was genuine or theatrics. “I only remember, I was hiding from Olive Hornby, who had been teasing me about my glasses when I heard a voice. Someone was speaking in another language that I didn’t recognize.” Myrtle continued her story. Sylvain turned to look at her, not wanting to appear as though she didn’t have his attention.

 

“Another language?” Sylvain thought aloud. Could she be referring to parseltongue? It would make sense, given the trait Slytherin passed down through his blood line. He hadn’t known anyone had descended from the line, thought it had died out long ago, but he remembered reading somewhere that there had been someone in the last decade..

 

Tom Riddle.

 

Sylvain felt a grin edge its way onto his face. Of course. Why else would the man have baited him into trying to find the chamber? He thought this task would prove impossible for Sylvain, no matter how clever he might be. To Tom he couldn’t possibly discover its location without the gift of snake speak. But Riddle didn’t know about Old Magic, didn’t know the secrets it held. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise at the thought that he might be revealing too much to Riddle by completing this task. Sylvain took one long calming breath – there was no turning back now. He had already issued his challenge and had accepted Riddle’s in kind. He wouldn’t disappoint, despite the line he was surely crossing. Fea had sent him down this path, however strange he found it to be, and this task was only one part of achieving whatever endgame she had in mind. Sylvain only wished she would illuminate the particulars of this game she had intentionally thrust him into.

 

“Yes, another language! All I knew was there was a _boy_ in here! I opened the door to tell him to go use his own bathroom and then.. I died.” She moaned loudly at this, flying swiftly into the stall she had vacated earlier, sobs again filling the bathroom.

 

“Thank you, Myrtle.” Sylvain called, leaving her to her fit of tears. If Myrtle had been in the stalls, it was unlikely that the entrance was inside one of them. That left the sinks as his last possibility. He began inspecting them, looking for any indication.

 

There was the etching of a snake on the side of the middle sink’s faucet and Sylvain’s heart jumped into his throat.

 

 _“Open_.” He whispered, holding his breath as he watched the sink move away to reveal a dark cavernous tunnel, leading down into nothingness. He smiled before taking the leap.

 

~

 

 

 

There was something undeniably beautiful about the sky in late December. Tom watched the sun hang low on the horizon. He had made sure his study had a window that faced towards the western sky, just for this. The pine trees on the far edge of the ground silhouetted the burning clouds, as the sun departed and made way for the stillness of night. It reminded him that everything ended, at one time or another. Everything but him.

 

He turned to Lucius and Snape, sitting in uncomfortable silence as they waited for him to speak. Tom never understood people who squirmed amid silence.

 

“Updates?” Tom let the single word hang in the air. He turned to look out the window again, watching the sun as it peeked out behind the tree line. There was something looming on the horizon, much like the sun was now, waiting to burst forth. Tom wondered not for the first time if somehow the universe could _feel_ him in that way, feel his force as he loomed on its horizon.

 

“Preparations for Yule have been made.” Lucius stated simply, giving no more elaboration than necessary. He’d learned long ago not to waste his master’s time with unnecessary details. “The House of Lords will hold a final session before the holiday recess, we will make a last push for the legislation then.” He finished with a drawl, trying not to let Tom’s wavering attention irk him.

 

“Very well,” Tom stated simply. “Severus?” He prompted, and the Potions professor didn’t so much as shift in his seat as Tom turned his crimson gaze to stare narrowly down his nose at him.

 

“Dumbledore continues to live in a web of suspicions and half-truths. You remain his singular obsession.” Severus hesitated. If it had been anyone else it might have been mistaken for the end of his train of thought but Tom knew there was more. His instincts concerning his followers was rarely, if ever, wrong.

 

He didn’t bother to say anything; his eyes hadn’t left Snape while he’d been speaking. Instead he narrowed his eyes, waiting for the other man to continue. Silence pervaded the room before Severus continued.

 

“Though, it seems a student might be of interest to him,” Snape murmured, he seemed pained to be revealing this information. Either he had been holding on to it for some time now or felt some sort of personal attachment. Tom was more inclined to believe the former.

 

He cleared his throat before continuing, a stall no doubt, “Sylvain Morrigan seems to be of increasing suspicion to the Headmaster.” Snape finished, eyes down cast.

 

“Is that so? Tell me more about this, _Sylvain_.” He felt no small delight in hissing the boy’s name. There was likely nothing Severus would say that he hadn’t already dug up on the boy, but he knew that it pained his favorite spy to say more than he had to.

 

“He is the sole heir to the Morrigan line, a line previously thought dead. His guardian is Fea Morrigan, with no listed Father.” Snape hesitantly looked up to his Master, fingers drumming on his thigh softly. Tom only nodded for him to continue. “A Slytherin, top of his class since he entered the school. Though, most of the time he seems uninterested in the material. He takes to spending a _worrying_ amount of time in and around the Forbidden Forest.”

 

“And what, exactly, would one of _your_ Slytherin’s be doing in the Forbidden Forest?” Tom leaned away from his perch by the open window before moving toward the seat Snape was occupying. He placed his hands on either side of the backrest, peering down on the top of the potion master’s greasy head as he spoke next, “Have you not followed him to see what it is, _precisely_ , he is doing?” Tom leaned down only slightly, letting his breath puff over the top of Snape’s head threateningly.

 

“I have, My Lord.” Snape replied. His fingers continued to drum softly across his thigh, the only indication of his tension at the looming form of the Dark Lord behind him.

 

“Ah, and?” He watched the way Snape’s fingers stilled. Any of his other followers would be babbling away at the slightest threat of retribution – but never Severus. He clung to any advantage like a man on a slippery slope.

 

“I couldn’t follow him, My Lord.” Snape’s voice had lowered an octave, likely uncomfortable with admitting a failure. “When the boy enters the Forest, I cannot follow him. He is hidden from every spell, every charm.”

 

Tom pushed away from the chair, feeling an eerie familiarity in Snape’s words to another Death Eater had spoken to him years ago.

 

“ _As though the forest didn’t want me to find him._ ” He hissed to himself, ignoring the involuntary twitch in Severus and Lucius at the sound of parseltongue. He had killed that Death Eater for his foolish words - nothing can remain hidden from him.

 

It was time to put the prophecy to rest. He had waited long enough.

 

The tension in the room was thick, Severus and Lucius waiting for Tom to return from his thoughts. Tom never had put much stock in fate, believing destiny is chosen not fated. Actions could shape not only one’s own future but other’s as well. But something about this irked him. The prophecy. Harry Potter. The forest. Sylvain Morrigan.

 

_Tap, tap, tap._

 

There was an owl perched on the sill of the open window, it’s tawny feathers fluttering in the December breeze. Tom recognized the owl as one from Hogwarts and something inside him quickened in excitement.

 

It wasn’t possible.

 

He held out his arm for the owl, stroking its soft face once before untying the parchment from its leg. On the front was scrolled hastily in green ink, ‘ _Tom Riddle.’_ There was no sender indicated but didn’t need one to know who had sent this. He broke the seal and read the simple contents of the letter:

 

_First floor. Girls bathroom. Basilisk say’s ‘hello.’_

 

Tom shooed the owl from his arm, crumpling the parchment in his hand. Quickly, he threw the note into the fire, a feral grin taking over his face as he watched the paper burn and turn to ash.

 

~

Sylvain had taken a meandering route through the castle on his way to the owlery. The letter he had penned was tucked carefully into the inside of his school robes, awaiting its departure to Fea. In addition to telling her about the past months events, mostly his foolish actions at the tournament and what had followed, he had asked her to accompany him to Riddle’s Yule celebration. The invitation he had received only a few days before was nestled in the same pocket as his letter. He had taken to carrying it around with him wherever he went. The giddy rush of excitement at his first real success along this path Fea had laid out for him had not left him.

 

His mind had been spinning in an endless twist of thoughts, possibilities and next moves gnarled together in one throbbing knot. Sylvain’s steps quickened involuntarily as he strode down the empty corridor. The area of the castle where the trophies were kept rarely saw student activity barring the wayward couple tucked away in one of its alcoves, which was why he had chosen this course. The energy surrounding him for the past few weeks was chaotic and clung to anything it encountered, he needed solitude to gather his thoughts. To realign himself. He reached inside his robes, compulsive need leading his fingers to run slowly down the edge of Riddle’s invitation.

 

Things were moving at a speed that frightened him, wrapped its cold indifferent fingers around his neck and wrung him dry. But, in the same turn enlivened him with its pace, with the promise of a chase. Sylvain wanted to show Riddle that he was not his prey, not some trinket to be collected and broken on his whim. Riddle is a wraith that haunts dreams and lurks in the shadows of this world, lying in wait for the perfect moment to reach his sinewy claws out into light and seize what he desired. To taint it. Reshape it. Break it to his will. But what Riddle had misunderstood was that Sylvain had no desire to be another trophy, not unlike the ones lining the hall he walked down. Sylvain was a wolf, one that would some day soon whisper away from the pack and stalk its own desolate wood.

 

Hesitation gripped him – he had never thought before that he would stray from Fea, that he would branch out on his own. Now though, it seemed like an eventuality instead of a forbidden force. Sylvain knew that when the day came she would see him go gladly, that she would be proud with the fierce force she had enabled him to become. He paused in his path, without knowing it he had begun to pace in front of one of the glass cases. Sighing he turned to look at the shining accomplishments it housed – awards, metals, plaques. All of them glimmered in the midday lights. Who polished and cared for these achievements long after the recipients had forgotten them?

 

A row of golden badges in the shape of shields caught Sylvain’s eye. They were all engraved with student’s names, citing special services to the school. Leaning closer Sylvain looked over the names, his interest piqued. What sort of feat had these students performed to be honored by Hogwarts? The thoughts brought to mind a dream he often had when he was still living at the orphanage – a dark copse of trees, green light like a crack of lighting in his eyes, mist that clung to the inside of his lungs. He would always wake with a chill in his chest and the sound of trains in his ears.

 

On instinct Sylvain reached out, placing his palm flat against the glass case. He had stopped having that dream when he had begun living with Fea. Whatever thread of fate he had been intertwined with had been snipped that day he’d been secreted away into the woods. Sylvain hoped to understand why Fea had really brought him to her, why she had chosen him. The power she had given him, continued to bestow upon him was immense. Its weight was only just beginning to press down upon him and impose its lofty aspirations.

 

Between the spaces of his splayed fingers Sylvain caught sight of a neatly etched ‘ _Tom Riddle’_ shining at him. A smile caught the edge of his lips as he quietly pulled his wand from his sleeve. He wouldn’t be able to undo any complex wards or locking spells if there were any, but a cursory check showed that the case’s latch was simply locked. A murmured _alohomora_ and Sylvain was plucking the smooth golden shield from its resting place on the shelf. He shrunk it before sliding it into his pocket to lay warm against the crisp edge of Riddle’s invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom being the kind of person who likes to watch sunsets and contemplate the fleeting nature of life - I live for dramatic Tom Riddle. Also, Sylvain stealing Tom's trophy hehehe I couldn't resist. >.>


End file.
